"Yes, I remember now that Martin-Guerre's name has taken Arnauld du Thill's place in the report that I have to examine every evening."
"For instance, who was picked up drunk by the watch the other night?" asked Arnauld.
"Martin-Guerre."
"And who, after a quarrel at the gaming-table on account of dice found to be cogged, struck with his sword the finest of the king's gendarmes?"
"Martin-Guerre again."
"And who only yesterday was taken in the act of trying to carry off the wife of Master Gorju, the ironmonger?"
"Always this same Martin-Guerre," said the constable. "An abominable rascal, to be sure. And his master, this Vicomte d'Exmès, whom I instructed you to keep a sharp watch on, is not likely to be of much more worth than he; for he upholds and defends him, and vows that his squire is the mildest and most sedate of men."
"That is what you used to have the goodness to say of me, Monseigneur. Martin-Guerre believes that he is possessed by the Devil, whereas in truth it is I who possess him."
"What! What do you mean? You are not Satan, are you?" cried the constable, crossing himself in his terror, for he was as ignorant as a fool, and as superstitious as a monk.
Master Arnauld replied only with an infernal leer; but when he thought he had alarmed Montmorency sufficiently, he said,—