lackeys, armed like Swiss guards, followed him closely, larding him
with the points of their javelins. Their master, a young gentleman,
thick-set and ruddy-faced, continued to encourage them by voice and
gesture, just as he would have done with dogs:

"Fall on! Fall on! Spike! The beast is tough!"

As he came close to me, I said:

"Oh! sir, have you no pity?"

"Sir," he replied, "it's easily seen that yonder Capuchin has not
caressed your mistress, and you have not surprised madam, whom you
see here, in the arms of this stinking beast. One cannot say
anything about her financier, because one has manners. But a
Capuchin cannot be borne. Burn the brazen-faced hussy!"

And he showed me Catherine under the doorway, clad in nothing but a
chemise, her eyes glistening with tears, wringing her hands, more
beautiful than ever, and murmuring in a dying voice, which cut deep
into my soul:

"Don't kill him! It's Friar Ange, the little friar!"

The rascally lackeys returned, announcing that they had given up the
pursuit at the appearance of the watch, but not without driving half
a finger deep their pikes in the holy man's behind. The night-caps
vanished from the windows, which were closed again, and whilst the
young nobleman talked to his followers, I went up to Catherine,
whose tears began to dry in the pretty folds of her smile. She said