“Not I.”
“’Tis Achon, Abbot of St. Savin, and now Bishop of Arles. He is St. André’s brother.”
“So that is Achon! He was at Lyons when I was at the Court. I like not his look.”
“Nor I. We have met before, Gaspard, and he does not forget, though it suits him, apparently, not to recognize me. It was he who claimed the Chaumont estates, which came to Marie, and he is hand and glove with the Brothers. ’Tis even said that he holds the office of Inquisitor—I fear we are in the wolf’s den.”
“There is another here who seems not to wish to recognize any one,” and I indicated the bashful stranger, whose back was toward us.
Marcilly was about to reply, when the Bishop rose, and, escorted by the farmer, and followed by his monks, passed down the room. We played our parts and rose too, and as Achon went by he stopped, and, looking Marcilly full in the face, said:
“I trust Monsieur le Comte is well.”
“Perfectly, monsieur, thanks. I hope to see Monsieur of Arles at Orleans soon.”
“At Orleans!”
“Monsieur, I have begun to think it is well to fly with the eagle.”