, and of strutting about the streets of Paris in a caparison of
gold brocade, with a lackey, _cum meo laquasio_. No, brother, 'tis for a
good work."

"What good work?" demanded Claude, somewhat surprised.

"Two of my friends wish to purchase an outfit for the infant of a poor
Haudriette widow. It is a charity. It will cost three forms, and I
should like to contribute to it."

"What are names of your two friends?"

"Pierre l'Assommeur and Baptiste Croque-Oison*."

* Peter the Slaughterer; and Baptist Crack-Gosling.

"Hum," said the archdeacon; "those are names as fit for a good work as a
catapult for the chief altar."

It is certain that Jehan had made a very bad choice of names for his two
friends. He realized it too late.

"And then," pursued the sagacious Claude, "what sort of an infant's
outfit is it that is to cost three forms, and that for the child of a
Haudriette? Since when have the Haudriette widows taken to having babes
in swaddling-clothes?"

Jehan broke the ice once more.

"Eh, well! yes! I need money in order to go and see Isabeau la Thierrye
to-night; in the Val-d' Amour!"

"Impure wretch!" exclaimed the priest.

"_Avayveia_!" said Jehan.

This quotation, which the scholar borrowed with malice, perchance, from
the wall of the cell, produced a singular effect on the archdeacon. He
bit his lips and his wrath was drowned in a crimson flush.

"Begone," he said to Jehan. "I am expecting some one."

The scholar made one more effort.

"Brother Claude, give me at least one little parisis to buy something to
eat."

"How far have you gone in the Decretals of Gratian?" demanded Dom
Claude.

"I have lost my copy books.

"Where are you in your Latin humanities?"

"My copy of Horace has been stolen."

"Where are you in Aristotle?"

"I' faith! brother what father of the church is it, who says that the
errors of heretics have always had for their lurking place the thickets
of Aristotle's metaphysics? A plague on Aristotle! I care not to tear my
religion on his metaphysics."

"Young man," resumed the archdeacon, "at the king's last entry, there
was a young gentleman, named Philippe de Comines, who wore embroidered
on the housings of his horse this device, upon which I counsel you to
meditate: _Qui non laborat, non manducet_."

The scholar remained silent for a moment, with his finger in his ear,
his eyes on the ground, and a discomfited mien.

All at once he turned round to Claud