"Ah!" cried Chicot, drawing his sword, "once warned, I do not
care; tell, my son, tell. Is it a crocodile? my sword is sharp,
for I use it every week to cut my corns." And Chicot sat down
in the armchair with his drawn sword between his legs.

"Last night," said Henri, "I slept----"

"And I also," said Chicot.

"Suddenly a breath swept over my face."

"It was the dog, who was hungry, and who licked your cream."

"I half woke, and felt my beard bristle with terror under my mask."

"Ah! you make me tremble deliciously."

"Then," continued the king, in a trembling voice, "then a voice
sounded through the room, with a doleful vibration."

"The voice of the crocodile! I have read in Marco Polo, that
the crocodile has a voice like the crying of children; but be
easy, my son, for if it comes, we will kill it."

"'Listen! miserable sinner,' said the voice----"

"Oh! it spoke; then it was not a crocodile."

"'Miserable sinner,' said the voice, 'I am the angel of God.'"