"What!" exclaimed the bishop with a wrathful sneer; "What! That conflagration could not be extinguished even in the blood of those damned dogs, of the revolted clowns, themselves?"
The prelate had just pronounced these execrable words, when Ancel Quatre-Mains entered, accompanied by his wife, Simonne, and preceded by Black John, who, leaving them at the door of the apartment, withdrew again with a smile on his cruel lips. The Councilman was pale and deeply moved. The good nature, habitual to his features, had now made place to an expression of deliberate firmness. It must, nevertheless, be admitted that his casque thrown too far back on his head and his stomach protruding below his steel corselet imparted to the townsman an almost grotesque appearance that could not fail to strike the Bishop of Laon. Accordingly breaking out in a loud guffaw, not unmixed with rage and disdain, and pointing to Ancel, he said to the archdeacon: "Here have you a bright sample of the gallant men who are to cause bishops, knights and kings to tremble and retreat. By the blood of Christ, what a grotesque appearance!"
The Councilman and his wife, who drew close to him, looked at each other, unable to understand the words of the bishop. No less alarmed than her husband, two distinct sentiments seemed to fill Simonne's mind—fear of some danger to Ancel and horror for Gaudry.
"Well, now, seigneur Councilman, august elective magistrate of the illustrious Commune of Laon!" said the prelate in a jeering and contemptuous accent. "You wanted to see me. Here I am. What do you want?"
"Seigneur bishop, I have had no ambition, and so I haven't, of coming here. I'm merely fulfilling a duty. This month I'm the judicial Councilman. As such, I am charged with the trials. It is in that capacity that I have come here to fill my office."
"Oh, oh! Greetings to you, seigneur prosecutor!" replied the prelate sneeringly, bowing before the baker. "May we at least know the subject of the process?"
"Certes, seigneur bishop, seeing the action is against yourself and against John, your African servant, I shall inform you of the charge."
"And while my husband is fulfilling a judicial mission," pertly put in Simonne, "he shall also demand justice and indemnity for the insults hurled at me by the noble dame of Haut-Pourcin, the wife of one of the episcopals of the city, so please your seigneur bishop!"
"By heaven, my negro John was right, I have never seen a prettier creature!" observed the dissolute bishop, attentively examining the baker's wife, whom until that instant he had taken little notice of; and seeming to reflect for a moment he asked: "How long have you been married, little darling? Answer your bishop truthfully!"
"Five years, monseigneur."