"Come, my father," said the chatelaine, giving her arm to the monk, whom she put at her side in the baron's chair, to the great astonishment of the attendants, because the Sire of Cande said not a word. "Page, give some of this to Father Amador," said madame.
"Father Amador has need of so and so," said the Demoiselle de Cande.
"Fill up Father Amador's goblet," said the sire.
"Father Amador has no bread," said the little lady.
"What do you require, Father Amador?" said Perrotte.
It was Father Amador here, and Father Amador there. He was regaled like a little maiden on her wedding night.
"Eat, father," said madame; "you made such a bad meal yesterday."
"Drink, father," said the sire. "You are, s'blood! the finest monk I have ever set eyes on."
"Father Amador is a handsome monk," said Perrotte.
"An indulgent monk," said the demoiselle.