Things went on in this manner until the seventh day, a day of which we have given such full details, with its night also, in the preceding chapters. On that night Malicorne was enjoying the fresh air, seated at his window, toward one o’clock in the morning, when Manicamp appeared on horseback, with a thoughtful and listless air.
“Good!” said Malicorne to himself, recognizing him at the first glance; “there’s my friend, who is come to take possession of his apartment, that is to say, of my room.” And he called to Manicamp, who looked up and immediately recognized Malicorne.
“Ah! by Jove!” said the former, his countenance clearing up, “glad to see you, Malicorne. I have been wandering about Fontainebleau, looking for three things I cannot find: De Guiche, a room, and a stable.”
“Of M. de Guiche I cannot give you either good or bad news, for I have not seen him; but as far as concerns your room and a stable, that’s another matter, for they have been retained here for you.”
“Retained – and by whom?”
“By yourself, I presume.”
“By me?”
“Do you mean to say you did not take lodgings here?”
“By no means,” said Manicamp.
At this moment the landlord appeared on the threshold of the door.
“I want a room,” said Manicamp.
“Did you engage one, monsieur?”
“No.”
“Then I have no rooms to let.”
“In that case, I have engaged a room,” said Manicamp.
“A room simply, or lodgings?”
“Anything you please.”
“By letter?” inquired the landlord.
Malicorne nodded affirmatively to Manicamp.
“Of course by letter,” said Manicamp. “Did you not receive a letter from me?”
“What was the date of the letter?” inquired the host, in whom Manicamp’s hesitation had aroused some suspicion.
Manicamp rubbed his ear, and looked up at Malicorne’s window; but Malicorne had left his window and was coming down the stairs to his friend’s assistance. At the very same moment, a traveler, wrapped in a large Spanish cloak, appeared at the porch, near enough to hear the conversation.
“I ask you what was the date of the letter you wrote to me to retain apartments here?” repeated the landlord, pressing the question.
“Last Wednesday was the date,” said the mysterious stranger, in a soft and polished tone of voice, touching the landlord on the shoulder.
Manicamp drew back, and it was now Malicorne’s turn, who appeared on the threshold, to scratch his ear. The landlord saluted the new arrival as a man who recognizes his true guest.
“Monsieur,” he said to him, with civility, “your apartment is ready for you, and the stables too, only – ” He looked round him and inquired, “Your horses?”
“My horses may or may not arrive. That, however, matters but little to you, provided you are paid for what has been engaged.” The landlord bowed lower still.
“You have,” continued the unknown traveler, “kept for me in addition, the small room I asked for?”
“Oh!” said Malicorne, endeavoring to hide himself.
“Your friend has occupied it during the last week,” said the landlord, pointing to Malicorne, who was trying to make himself as small as possible. The traveler, drawing his cloak round him so as to cover the lower part of his face, cast a rapid glance at Malicorne, and said, “This gentleman is no friend of mine.”
The landlord started violently.
“I am not acquainted with this gentleman,” continued the traveler.
“What!” exclaimed the host, turning to Malicorne, “are you not this gentleman’s friend, then?”
“What does it matter whether I am or not, provided you are paid?” said Malicorne, parodying the stranger’s remark in a very majestic manner.
“It matters so far as this,” said the landlord, who began to perceive that one person had been taken for another, “that I beg you, monsieur, to leave the rooms, which had been engaged beforehand, and by some one else instead of you.”
“Still,” said Malicorne, “this gentleman cannot require at the same time a room on the first floor and an apartment on the second. If this gentleman will take the room, I will take the apartment: if he prefers the apartment, I will be satisfied with the room.”
“I am exceedingly distressed, monsieur,” said the traveler in his soft voice, “but I need both the room and the apartment.”
“At least, tell me for whom?” inquired Malicorne.
“The apartment I require for myself.”
“Very well; but the room?”
“Look,” said the traveler, pointing towards a sort of procession which was approaching.
Malicorne looked in the direction indicated, and observed borne upon a litter, the arrival of the Franciscan, whose installation in his apartment he had, with a few details of his own, related to Montalais, and whom he had so uselessly endeavored to convert to humbler views. The result of the arrival of the stranger, and of the sick Franciscan, was Malicorne’s expulsion, without any consideration for his feelings, from the inn, by the landlord and the peasants who had carried the Franciscan. The details have already been given of what followed this expulsion; of Manicamp’s conversation with Montalais; how Manicamp, with greater cleverness than Malicorne had shown, had succeeded in obtaining news of De Guiche, of the subsequent conversation of Montalais with Malicorne, and, finally, of the billets with which the Comte de Saint-Aignan had furnished Manicamp and Malicorne. It remains for us to inform our readers who was the traveler in the cloak – the principal tenant of the double apartment, of which Malicorne had only occupied a portion – and the Franciscan, quite as mysterious a personage, whose arrival, together with that of the stranger, unfortunately upset the two friends’ plans.
Chapter LII. A Jesuit of the Eleventh Year
In the first place, in order not to weary the reader’s patience, we will hasten to answer the first question. The traveler with the cloak held over his face was Aramis, who, after he had left Fouquet, and taken from a portmanteau, which his servant had opened, a cavalier’s complete costume, quitted the chateau, and went to the hotel of the Beau Paon, where, by letters, seven or eight days previously, he had, as the landlord had stated, directed a room and an apartment to be retained for him. Immediately after Malicorne and Manicamp had been turned out, Aramis approached the Franciscan, and asked him whether he would prefer the apartment or the room. The Franciscan inquired where they were both situated. He was told that the room was on the first, and the apartment on the second floor.
“The room, then,” he said.
Aramis did not contradict him, but, with great submissiveness, said to the landlord: “The room.” And bowing with respect he withdrew into the apartment, and the Franciscan was accordingly carried at once into the room. Now, is it not extraordinary that this respect should be shown by a prelate of the Church for a simple monk, for one, too, belonging to a mendicant order; to whom was given up, without a request for it even, a room which so many travelers were desirous of obtaining? How, too, can one explain the unexpected arrival of Aramis at the hotel – he who had entered the chateau with M. Fouquet, and could have remained at the chateau with M. Fouquet if he had liked? The Franciscan supported his removal up the staircase without uttering a complaint, although it was evident he suffered very much, and that every time the litter knocked against the wall or the railing of the staircase, he experienced a terrible shock throughout his frame. And finally, when he had arrived in the room, he said to those who carried him: “Help me to place myself in that armchair.” The bearers of the litter placed it on the ground, and lifting the sick man up as gently as possible, carried him to the chair he had indicated, which was situated at the head of the bed. “Now,” he added, with a marked benignity of gesture and tone, “desire the landlord to come.”
They obeyed, and five minutes afterwards the landlord appeared at the door.
“Be kind enough,” said the Franciscan to him, “to send these excellent fellows away; they are vassals of the Vicomte de Melun. They found me when I had fainted on the road overcome by the heat, and without thinking of whether they would be paid for their trouble, they wished to carry me to their own home. But I know at what cost to themselves is the hospitality which the poor extend to a sick monk, and I preferred this hotel, where, moreover, I was expected.”
The landlord looked at the Franciscan in amazement, but the latter, with his thumb, made the sign of the cross in a peculiar manner upon his breast. The host replied by making a similar sign on his left shoulder. “Yes, indeed,” he said, “we did expect you, but we hoped that you would arrive in a better state of health.” And as the peasants were looking at the innkeeper, usually so supercilious, and saw how respectful he had become in the presence of a poor monk, the Franciscan drew from a deep pocket three or four pieces of gold which he held out.
“My friends,” said he, “here is something to repay you for the care you have taken of me. So make yourselves perfectly easy, and do not be afraid of leaving me here. The order to which I belong, and for which I am traveling, does not require me to beg; only, as the attention you have shown me deserves to be rewarded, take these two louis and depart in peace.”
The peasants did not dare to take them; the landlord took the two louis out of the monk’s hand and placed them in that of one of the peasants, all four of whom withdrew, opening their eyes wider than ever. The door was then closed; and, while the innkeeper stood respectfully near it, the Franciscan collected himself for a moment. He then passed across his sallow face a hand which seemed dried up by fever, and rubbed his nervous and agitated fingers across his beard. His large eyes, hollowed by sickness and inquietude, seemed to peruse in the vague distance a mournful and fixed idea.
“What physicians have you at Fontainebleau?” he inquired, after a long pause.
“We have three, holy father.”
“What are their names?”
“Luiniguet first.”
“The next one?”
“A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother Hubert.”
“The next?”
“A secular member, named Grisart.”
“Ah! Grisart?” murmured the monk, “send for M. Grisart immediately.”
The landlord moved in prompt obedience to the direction.
“Tell me what priests are there here?”
“What priests?”
“Yes; belonging to what orders?”
“There are Jesuits, Augustines, and Cordeliers; but the Jesuits are the closest at hand. Shall I send for a confessor belonging to the order of Jesuits?”
“Yes, immediately.”
It will be imagined that, at the sign of the cross which they had exchanged, the landlord and the invalid monk had recognized each other as two affiliated members of the well-known Society of Jesus. Left to himself, the Franciscan drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, some of which he read over with the most careful attention. The violence of his disorder, however, overcame his courage; his eyes rolled in their sockets, a cold sweat poured down his face, and he nearly fainted, and lay with his head thrown backwards and his arms hanging down on both sides of his chair. For more than five minutes he remained without any movement, when the landlord returned, bringing with him the physician, whom he hardly allowed time to dress himself. The noise they made in entering the room, the current of air, which the opening of the door occasioned, restored the Franciscan to his senses. He hurriedly seized hold of the papers which were lying about, and with his long and bony hand concealed them under the cushions of the chair. The landlord went out of the room, leaving patient and physician together.
“Come here, Monsieur Grisart,” said the Franciscan to the doctor; “approach closer, for there is no time to lose. Try, by touch and sound, and consider and pronounce your sentence.”
“The landlord,” replied the doctor, “told me I had the honor of attending an affiliated brother.”
“Yes,” replied the Franciscan, “it is so. Tell me the truth, then; I feel very ill, and I think I am about to die.”
The physician took the monk’s hand, and felt his pulse. “Oh, oh,” he said, “a dangerous fever.”
“What do you call a dangerous fever?” inquired the Franciscan, with an imperious look.
“To an affiliated member of the first or second year,” replied the physician, looking inquiringly at the monk, “I should say – a fever that may be cured.”
“But to me?” said the Franciscan. The physician hesitated.
“Look at my grey hair, and my forehead, full of anxious thought,” he continued: “look at the lines in my face, by which I reckon up the trials I have undergone; I am a Jesuit of the eleventh year, Monsieur Grisart.” The physician started, for, in fact, a Jesuit of the eleventh year was one of those men who had been initiated in all the secrets of the order, one of those for whom science has no more secrets, the society no further barriers to present – temporal obedience, no more trammels.
“In that case,” said Grisart, saluting him with respect, “I am in the presence of a master?”
“Yes; act, therefore, accordingly.”
“And you wish to know?”
“My real state.”
“Well,” said the physician, “it is a brain fever, which has reached its highest degree of intensity.”
“There is no hope, then?” inquired the Franciscan, in a quick tone of voice.
“I do not say that,” replied the doctor; “yet, considering the disordered state of the brain, the hurried respiration, the rapidity of the pulse, and the burning nature of the fever which is devouring you – ”
“And which has thrice prostrated me since this morning,” said the monk.
“All things considered, I shall call it a terrible attack. But why did you not stop on your road?”
“I was expected here, and I was obliged to come.”
“Even at the risk of your life?”
“Yes, at the risk of dying on the way.”
“Very well. Considering all the symptoms of your case, I must tell you that your condition is almost desperate.”
The Franciscan smiled in a strange manner.
“What you have just told me is, perhaps, sufficient for what is due to an affiliated member, even of the eleventh year; but for what is due to me, Monsieur Grisart, it is too little, and I have a right to demand more. Come, then, let us be more candid still, and as frank as if you were making your own confession to Heaven. Besides, I have already sent for a confessor.”
“Oh! I have hopes, however,” murmured the doctor.
“Answer me,” said the sick man, displaying with a dignified gesture a golden ring, the stone of which had until that moment been turned inside, and which bore engraved thereon the distinguishing mark of the Society of Jesus.
Grisart uttered loud exclamation. “The general!” he cried.
“Silence,” said the Franciscan., “you can now understand that the whole truth is all important.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur,” murmured Grisart, “send for the confessor, for in two hours, at the next seizure, you will be attacked by delirium, and will pass away in its course.”
“Very well,” said the patient, for a moment contracting his eyebrows, “I have still two hours to live then?”
“Yes; particularly if you take the potion I will send you presently.”
“And that will give me two hours of life?”
“Two hours.”
“I would take it, were it poison, for those two hours are necessary not only for myself, but for the glory of the order.”
“What a loss, what a catastrophe for us all!” murmured the physician.
“It is the loss of one man – nothing more,” replied the Franciscan, “for Heaven will enable the poor monk, who is about to leave you, to find a worthy successor. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; already even, through the goodness of Heaven, I have met with you. A physician who had not been one of our holy order, would have left me in ignorance of my condition; and, confident that existence would be prolonged a few days further, I should not have taken the necessary precautions. You are a learned man, Monsieur Grisart, and that confers an honor upon us all; it would have been repugnant to my feelings to have found one of our order of little standing in his profession. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; send me the cordial immediately.”
“Give me your blessing, at least, monseigneur.”
“In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind, I do so, I tell you —animo, Maitre Grisart, viribus impossibile.” And he again fell back on the armchair, in an almost senseless state. M. Grisart hesitated, whether he should give him immediate assistance, or should run to prepare the cordial he had promised. He decided in favor of the cordial, for he darted out of the room and disappeared down the staircase.6
Chapter LIII. The State Secret
A few moments after the doctor’s departure, the confessor arrived. He had hardly crossed the threshold of the door when the Franciscan fixed a penetrating look upon him, and, shaking his head, murmured – “A weak mind, I see; may Heaven forgive me if I die without the help of this living piece of human infirmity.” The confessor, on his side, regarded the dying man with astonishment, almost with terror. He had never beheld eyes so burningly bright at the very moment they were about to close, nor looks so terrible at the moment they were about to be quenched in death. The Franciscan made a rapid and imperious movement of his hand. “Sit down, there, my father,” he said, “and listen to me.” The Jesuit confessor, a good priest, a recently initiated member of the order, who had merely seen the beginning of its mysteries, yielded to the superiority assumed by the penitent.
“There are several persons staying in this hotel,” continued the Franciscan.
“But,” inquired the Jesuit, “I thought I had been summoned to listen to a confession. Is your remark, then, a confession?”
“Why do you ask?”
“In order to know whether I am to keep your words secret.”
“My remarks are part of my confession; I confide them to you in your character of a confessor.”
“Very well,” said the priest, seating himself on the chair which the Franciscan had, with great difficulty, just left, to lie down on the bed.
The Franciscan continued, – “I repeat, there are several persons staying in this inn.”
“So I have heard.”
“They ought to be eight in number.”
The Jesuit made a sign that he understood him. “The first to whom I wish to speak,” said the dying man, “is a German from Vienna, whose name is Baron de Wostpur. Be kind enough to go to him, and tell him the person he expected has arrived.” The confessor, astounded, looked at his penitent; the confession seemed a singular one.
“Obey,” said the Franciscan, in a tone of command impossible to resist. The good Jesuit, completely subdued, rose and left the room. As soon as he had gone, the Franciscan again took up the papers which a crisis of the fever had already, once before, obliged him to put aside.
“The Baron de Wostpur? Good!” he said; “ambitious, a fool, and straitened in means.”
He folded up the papers, which he thrust under his pillow. Rapid footsteps were heard at the end of the corridor. The confessor returned, followed by the Baron de Wostpur, who walked along with his head raised, as if he were discussing with himself the possibility of touching the ceiling with the feather in his hat. Therefore, at the appearance of the Franciscan, at his melancholy look, and seeing the plainness of the room, he stopped, and inquired, – “Who has summoned me?”
“I,” said the Franciscan, who turned towards the confessor, saying, “My good father, leave us for a moment together; when this gentleman leaves, you will return here.” The Jesuit left the room, and, doubtless, availed himself of this momentary exile from the presence of the dying man to ask the host for some explanation about this strange penitent, who treated his confessor no better than he would a man servant. The baron approached the bed, and wished to speak, but the hand of the Franciscan imposed silence upon him.
“Every moment is precious,” said the latter, hurriedly. “You have come here for the competition, have you not?”
“Yes, my father.”
“You hope to be elected general of the order?”
“I hope so.”
“You know on what conditions only you can possibly attain this high position, which makes one man the master of monarchs, the equal of popes?”
“Who are you,” inquired the baron, “to subject me to these interrogations?”
“I am he whom you expected.”
“The elector-general?”
“I am the elected.”
“You are – ”
The Franciscan did not give him time to reply; he extended his shrunken hand, on which glittered the ring of the general of the order. The baron drew back in surprise; and then, immediately afterwards, bowing with the profoundest respect, he exclaimed, – “Is it possible that you are here, monseigneur; you, in this wretched room; you, upon this miserable bed; you, in search of and selecting the future general, that is, your own successor?”
“Do not distress yourself about that, monsieur, but fulfil immediately the principal condition, of furnishing the order with a secret of importance, of such importance that one of the greatest courts of Europe will, by your instrumentality, forever be subjected to the order. Well! do you possess the secret which you promised, in your request, addressed to the grand council?”
“Monseigneur – ”
“Let us proceed, however, in due order,” said the monk. “You are the Baron de Wostpur?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And this letter is from you?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
The general of the Jesuits drew a paper from his bundle, and presented it to the baron, who glanced at it, and made a sign in the affirmative, saying, “Yes, monseigneur, this letter is mine.”
“Can you show me the reply which the secretary of the grand council returned to you?”
“Here it is,” said the baron, holding towards the Franciscan a letter bearing simply the address, “To his excellency the Baron de Wostpur,” and containing only this phrase, “From the 15th to the 22nd May, Fontainebleau, the hotel of the Beau Paon. – A. M. D. G.”7
“Right,” said the Franciscan, “and now speak.”
“I have a body of troops, composed of 50,000 men; all the officers are gained over. I am encamped on the Danube. In four days I can overthrow the emperor, who is, as you are aware, opposed to the progress of our order, and can replace him by whichever of the princes of his family the order may determine upon.” The Franciscan listened, unmoved.
“Is that all?” he said.
“A revolution throughout Europe is included in my plan,” said the baron.
“Very well, Monsieur de Wostpur, you will receive a reply; return to your room, and leave Fontainebleau within a quarter of an hour.” The baron withdrew backwards, as obsequiously as if he were taking leave of the emperor he was ready to betray.
“There is no secret there,” murmured the Franciscan, “it is a plot. Besides,” he added, after a moment’s reflection, “the future of Europe is no longer in the hands of the House of Austria.”
And with a pencil he held in his hand, he struck the Baron de Wostpur’s name from the list.
“Now for the cardinal,” he said; “we ought to get something more serious from the side of Spain.”
Raising his head, he perceived the confessor, who was awaiting his orders as respectfully as a school-boy.
“Ah, ah!” he said, noticing his submissive air, “you have been talking with the landlord.”
“Yes, monseigneur; and to the physician.”
“To Grisart?”
“Yes.”
“He is here, then?”
“He is waiting with the potion he promised.”
“Very well; if I require him, I will call; you now understand the great importance of my confession, do you not?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Then go and fetch me the Spanish Cardinal Herrebia. Make haste. Only, as you now understand the matter in hand, you will remain near me, for I begin to feel faint.”
“Shall I summon the physician?”
“Not yet, not yet… the Spanish cardinal, no one else. Fly.”
Five minutes afterwards, the cardinal, pale and disturbed, entered the little room.
“I am informed, monseigneur, – ” stammered the cardinal.
“To the point,” said the Franciscan, in a faint voice, showing the cardinal a letter which he had written to the grand council. “Is that your handwriting?”
“Yes, but – ”
“And your summons?”
The cardinal hesitated to answer. His purple revolted against the mean garb of the poor Franciscan, who stretched out his hand and displayed the ring, which produced its effect, greater in proportion to the greatness of the person over whom the Franciscan exercised his influence.
“Quick, the secret, the secret!” said the dying man, leaning upon his confessor.
“Coram isto?” inquired the Spanish cardinal.8
“Speak in Spanish,” said the Franciscan, showing the liveliest attention.
“You are aware, monseigneur,” said the cardinal, continuing the conversation in Castilian, “that the condition of the marriage of the Infanta with the king of France was the absolute renunciation of the rights of the said Infanta, as well as of King Louis XIV., to all claim to the crown of Spain.” The Franciscan made a sign in the affirmative.
“The consequence is,” continued the cardinal, “that the peace and alliance between the two kingdoms depend upon the observance of that clause of the contract.” A similar sign from the Franciscan. “Not only France and Spain,” continued the cardinal, “but the whole of Europe even, would be violently rent asunder by the faithlessness of either party.” Another movement of the dying man’s head.
“It further results,” continued the speaker, “that the man who might be able to foresee events, and to render certain that which is no more than a vague idea floating in the mind of man, that is to say, the idea of a future good or evil, would preserve the world from a great catastrophe; and the event, which has no fixed certainty even in the brain of him who originated it, could be turned to the advantage of our order.”
“Pronto, pronto!” murmured the Franciscan, in Spanish, who suddenly became paler, and leaned upon the priest. The cardinal approached the ear of the dying man, and said, “Well, monseigneur, I know that the king of France has determined that, at the very first pretext, a death for instance, either that of the king of Spain, or that of a brother of the Infanta, France will, arms in hand, claim the inheritance, and I have in my possession, already prepared, the plan of policy agreed upon by Louis XIV. for this occasion.”
“And this plan?” said the Franciscan.
“Here it is,” returned the cardinal.
“In whose handwriting is it?”
“My own.”
“Have you anything further to say to me?”
“I think I have said a good deal, my lord,” replied the cardinal.
“Yes, you have rendered the order a great service. But how did you procure the details, by the aid of which you have constructed your plan?”
“I have the under-servants of the king of France in my pay, and I obtain from them all the waste papers, which have been saved from being burnt.”
“Very ingenious,” murmured the Franciscan, endeavoring to smile; “you will leave this hotel, cardinal, in a quarter of an hour, and a reply shall be sent you.” The cardinal withdrew.
“Call Grisart, and desire the Venetian Marini to come,” said the sick man.
While the confessor obeyed, the Franciscan, instead of striking out the cardinal’s name, as he had done the baron’s, made a cross at the side of it. Then, exhausted by the effort, he fell back on his bed, murmuring the name of Dr. Grisart. When he returned to his senses, he had drunk about half of the potion, of which the remainder was left in the glass, and he found himself supported by the physician, while the Venetian and the confessor were standing close to the door. The Venetian submitted to the same formalities as his two predecessors, hesitated as they had done at the sight of the two strangers, but his confidence restored by the order of the general, he revealed that the pope, terrified at the power of the order, was weaving a plot for the general expulsion of the Jesuits, and was tampering with the different courts of Europe in order to obtain their assistance. He described the pontiff’s auxiliaries, his means of action, and indicated the particular locality in the Archipelago where, by a sudden surprise, two cardinals, adepts of the eleventh year, and, consequently, high in authority, were to be transported, together with thirty-two of the principal affiliated members of Rome. The Franciscan thanked the Signor Marini. It was by no means a slight service he had rendered the society by denouncing this pontifical project. The Venetian thereupon received directions to set off in a quarter of an hour, and left as radiant as if he already possessed the ring, the sign of the supreme authority of the society. As, however, he was departing, the Franciscan murmured to himself: “All these men are either spies, or a sort of police, not one of them a general; they have all discovered a plot, but not one of them a secret. It is not by means of ruin, or war, or force, that the Society of Jesus is to be governed, but by that mysterious influence moral superiority alone confers. No, the man is not yet found, and to complete the misfortune, Heaven strikes me down, and I am dying. Oh! must the society indeed fall with me for want of a column to support it? Must death, which is waiting for me, swallow up with me the future of the order; that future which ten years more of my own life would have rendered eternal? for that future, with the reign of the new king, is opening radiant and full of splendor.” These words, which had been half-reflected, half-pronounced aloud, were listened to by the Jesuit confessor with a terror similar to that with which one listens to the wanderings of a person attacked by fever, whilst Grisart, with a mind of higher order, devoured them as the revelations of an unknown world, in which his looks were plunged without ability to comprehend. Suddenly the Franciscan recovered himself.
“Let us finish this,” he said; “death is approaching. Oh! just now I was dying resignedly, for I hoped… while now I sink in despair, unless those who remain… Grisart, Grisart, give me to live a single hour longer.”
Grisart approached the dying monk, and made him swallow a few drops, not of the potion which was still left in the glass, but of the contents of a small bottle he had upon his person.