"You will take your meals with us?" cried the sacristan aghast. "But they all know you."
"None of them will know me; you won't know me yourself."
"Ah, I see," nodded the old man wisely. "You will have a disguise. But my wife has sharp eyes."
"If she knows me, or if the candle girl knows me, I'll give you a thousand francs instead of five hundred. Now, here is the money for François"—he handed the sacristan a hundred-franc note—"and here are five hundred francs for you. I shall come on Tuesday, ready for work. When do you want me?"
"At six o'clock," answered the sacristan doubtfully. "But what shall I say if anyone asks me about it?"
"Say François was sick, and you got your old friend Matthieu to replace him for a few days. I'm Matthieu!"
Papa Bonneton touched the five crisp bank notes caressingly; their clean blue and white attracted him irresistibly.
"You wouldn't get me into trouble, M. Paul?" he appealed weakly.
"Papa Bonneton," answered Coquenil earnestly, "have I ever shown you anything but friendship? When old Max died and you asked me to lend you Cæsar I did it, didn't I? And you know what Cæsar is to me. I love that dog, if anything happened to him—well, I don't like to think of it, but I let you have him, didn't I? That proves my trust; now I want yours. I can't explain my reasons; it isn't necessary, but I tell you that what I'm asking cannot do you the least harm, and may do me the greatest good. There, it's up to you."
M. Paul held out his hand frankly and the sacristan took it, with emotion.