"Go, then."

Henri opened softly the door which led into the corridor. He
had scarcely entered it, when he heard the voice redoubling its
reproaches, and Chicot replying.

"Yes," said the voice, "you are as inconstant as a woman, as soft
as a Sybarite, as irreligious as a heathen."

"Oh!" whined Chicot, "is it my fault if I have such a soft skin--such
white hands--such a changeable mind? But from to-day I will alter--I
will wear coarse linen----"

However, as Henri advanced, he found that Chicot's voice grew
fainter, and the other louder, and that it seemed to come from
St. Luc's room, in which he could see a light. He stooped down
and peeped through the keyhole, and immediately grew pale with
anger.

"Par la mordieu!" murmured he, "is it possible that they have
dared to play such a trick?"

This is what he saw through the keyhole. St. Luc, in a dressing-gown,
was roaring through a tube the words which he had found so dreadful,
and beside him, leaning on his shoulder, was a lady in white, who
every now and then took the tube from him, and called through
something herself, while stifled bursts of laughter accompanied
each sentence of Chicot's, who continued to answer in a doleful
tone.