“Yes, I have succeeded,” returned the priest shortly. “But there is plenty of time to talk about that later. I will see this wound first, if you please. What in the name of fortune were you doing in the forest at this time of night? And who bandaged this up—who was the imbecile who took your coat off you and put it on again instead of slitting up the sleeve?”
For the Marquis, submitting to the inevitable, had stiffly and painfully drawn his arm out of the breast of his coat and laid it on the table.
“One question at a time, mon cher,” he said. “M. de Brencourt was with me, and it was he who was kind enough to do what he could for me. I myself was the imbecile who insisted on getting into my coat again.”
“And why, may I ask?” enquired the Abbé, rapidly unbandaging. “Do you enjoy putting yourself to pain?”
“Does anybody?” retorted his patient. “I did not want to cause more alarm on my return than I needed; that was why.”
“Humph; very thoughtful of you!” commented M. Chassin, glancing at him. “Tch! tch! a nice business! The ball is still there!”
“I believe it is,” admitted M. de Kersaint almost apologetically.
“Can you move your fingers?”
“I can, but I don’t want to.”
“I wonder where it has got to,” murmured the Abbé, still examining. “Does that hurt?”