"'Thank you, my kind fellow!' said Perrot.
"He got down with much stumbling, and was obliged to lean against the first wall that he came to.
"'My comrade has had a little too much to drink,' remarked the peasant, starting up his horse.
"And away he went, singing the new chanson just written by Master François Rabelais, the jolly curé of Meudon:—
"'O Dieu, père Paterne,
Qui muas l'eau en vin,
Fais de mon cul lanterne
Pour luire à mon voisin!'[4]
"It took Perrot an hour to get from Rue St. Antoine to Rue des Jardins. Luckily the January nights are long. He didn't meet a soul, and arrived home about six o'clock.
"My anxiety had kept me all night at the open window, Monseigneur, notwithstanding the cold. At Perrot's first call I rushed to the door and opened it.
"'Not a sound, on your life!' were his first words to me. 'Help me up to my room, but not a cry, not a word!'
"He went upstairs, leaning on my arm; while I, seeing that he was wounded and bleeding, didn't dare to speak, because he had forbidden me, but wept silently. When we finally got to our room, and I had taken off his coat and relieved him of his weapons, the poor soul's blood covered my hands, and I saw the great gaping wounds. He forbade my cry of horror by a stern gesture, and assumed the easiest position possible on the bed.
"'At least, let me call a surgeon, for God's sake!' I sobbed.