I recognised in the speaker, the Monsieur d'Anquetil whom I had seen
a short time ago excite his followers so vehemently to spike Friar
Ange. Now he spoke with courtesy and treated me as a gentleman. I
understood all the favour he conferred on me by his consent to cut
my throat. Nor was my dear tutor less sensible of so much urbanity,
and after having shaken himself he said to me:

"Jacques Tournebroche, my son, we cannot say nay to such a gracious
invitation."

Already two lackeys had come down bearing torches. They led us to a
room where a collation had been prepared on a table lit up by wax
candles burning in two silver candelabra. M. d'Anquetil invited us
to be seated, and my good master tied his napkin round his throat.
He already had a thrush on his fork when heart-rending sobs were to
be heard.

"Don't take any notice of yonder noise," said M. d'Anquetil, "it's
only Catherine, whom I have locked in that room."

"Ah! sir; you must forgive her," said my kind-hearted tutor, looking
sadly on the gold-brown toasted little bird on his fork. "The
pleasantest meat tastes bitter when seasoned with tears and moans.
Could you have the heart to let a woman cry? Reprieve this one, I
beg of you! Is she then so blamable for having thrown a kiss to my
young pupil, who was her neighbour and companion in the days of
their common mediocrity, at a time when this pretty girl's charms
were only famous under the vine arbour of the _Little Bacchus_? It
was but an innocent action, as much so as a human, and particularly
a woman's, action can ever be innocent, and altogether free of the