"Tell him I have the fever, and you will be telling him no lie, for I
am ill of this little priest who is torturing my brain."

But just as she had finished speaking, and was pressing with devotion
the hand of Philippe who trembled in his skin, appeared the fat Bishop
of Coire, indignant and angry. The officers followed him, bearing a
trout canonically dressed, fresh from the Rhine, and shining in a
golden platter, and spices contained in little ornamental boxes, and a
thousand dainties, such as liqueurs and jams, made by the holy nuns at
his Abbey.

"Ah, ah!" said he, with his deep voice, "I haven't time to go to the
devil, but you must give me a touch of him in advance, eh! my little
one."

"Your belly will one day make a nice sheath for a sword," replied she,
knitting her brows above her eyes, which from being soft and gentle
had become mischievous enough to make one tremble.

"And this little chorus singer is here to offer that?" said the
bishop, insolently turning his great rubicund face towards Philippe.

"Monseigneur, I'm here to confess Madame."

"Oh, oh, do you not know the canons? To confess the ladies at this
time of night is a right reserved to bishops, so take yourself off; go
and herd with simple monks, and never come back here again under pain
of excommunication."