wonderful agility--he flew like a
tiger, twisted like a serpent, and bounded from right to left; but
Chicot, with his calm air and his long arm, seized his time, and putting
aside his adversary's sword, still sent his own to the same place, while
Borromee grew pale with anger. At last, Jacques rushed a last time on
Chicot, who, parrying his thrust with force, threw the poor fellow off
his equilibrium, and he fell, while Chicot himself remained firm as a
rock.

"You did not tell us you were a pillar," said Borromee, biting his nails
with vexation.

"I, a poor bourgeois!" said Chicot.

"But, monsieur, to manage a sword as you do, you must have practiced
enormously."

"Oh! mon Dieu! yes, monsieur, I have often held the sword, and have
always found one thing."--"What is that?"

"That for him who holds it, pride is a bad counselor and anger a bad
assistant. Now, listen, Jacques," added he: "you have a good wrist, but
neither legs nor head; you are quick, but you do not reason. There are
three essential things in arms--first the head, then the hands and legs:
with the one you can defend yourself, with the others you may conquer,
but with all three you can always conquer."

"Ah! monsieur," said Jacques, "try Brother Borromee; I should like to
see it."

"No," said the treasurer, "I should be beaten, and I would rather
confess it than prove it."

"How modest and amiable he is!" said Gorenflot.

"On the contrary," whispered Chicot, "he is stupid with vanity. At his
age I would have given anything for such a lesson," and he sat down
again.

Jacques approached him, and admiration triumphing over the shame of
defeat:

"Will you give me some lessons, M. Briquet?" said he; "the prior will
permit it, will you not, your reverence?"

"With pleasure, my child."

"I do not wish to interfere with your master," said Chicot, bowing to
Borromee.

"Oh! I am not his only master," said he. "Neither all the honor nor the
defeat are wholly due to me."

"Who is the other, then?"

"Oh! no one!" cried Borromee, fearing he had committed an imprudence.

"Who is he, Jacques?" asked Chicot.

"I remember," said Gorenflot; "he is a little fat man who comes here
sometimes and drinks well."

"I forget his name," said Borromee.

"I know it," said a monk who was standing by. "It is Bussy Leclerc."

"Ah! a good sword," said Chicot.

Jacques reiterated his request.

"I cannot teach you," said Chicot. "I taught myself by reflection