“A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of wine.”
“This is Saturday, monsieur—it is a day of abstinence.”
“I have a dispensation,” said D’Artagnan.
Bazin looked at him suspiciously.
“Ah, ah, master hypocrite!” said the musketeer, “for whom do you take me? If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation to commit a crime, shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating meat at the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin, or, by heavens! I will complain to the king, and you shall never confess. Now you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king—I have the king, I am the stronger.”
Bazin smiled hypocritically. “Ah, but we have monsieur le surintendant,” said he.
“And you laugh at the king, then?”
Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent.
“My supper,” said D’Artagnan, “it is getting towards seven o’clock.”
Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the cook. In the meantime, D’Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.