ice without replied, "Your friend, Jacques Coictier." He went to
open the door.

It was, in fact, the king's physician; a person about fifty years of
age, whose harsh physiognomy was modified only by a crafty eye. Another
man accompanied him. Both wore long slate-colored robes, furred with
minever, girded and closed, with caps of the same stuff and hue. Their
hands were concealed by their sleeves, their feet by their robes, their
eyes by their caps.

"God help me, messieurs!" said the archdeacon, showing them in; "I
was not expecting distinguished visitors at such an hour." And while
speaking in this courteous fashion he cast an uneasy and scrutinizing
glance from the physician to his companion.

"'Tis never too late to come and pay a visit to so considerable
a learned man as Dom Claude Frollo de Tirechappe," replied Doctor
Coictier, whose Franche-Comte accent made all his phrases drag along
with the majesty of a train-robe.

There then ensued between the physician and the archdeacon one of those
congratulatory prologues which, in accordance with custom, at that
epoch preceded all conversations between learned men, and which did not
prevent them from detesting each other in the most cordial manner in
the world. However, it is the same nowadays; every wise man's mouth
complimenting another wise man is a vase of honeyed gall.

Claude Frollo's felicitations to Jacques Coictier bore reference
principally to the temporal advantages which the worthy physician had
found means to extract, in the course of his much envied career, from
each malady of the king, an operation of alchemy much better and more
certain than the pursuit of the philosopher's stone.

"In truth, Monsieur le Docteur Coictier, I felt great joy on learning of
the bishopric given your nephew, my reverend seigneur Pierre Verse. Is
he not Bishop of Amiens?"

"Yes, monsieur Archdeacon; it is a grace and mercy of God."

"Do you know that you made a great figure on Christmas Day at the bead
of your company of the chamber of accounts, Monsieur President?"

"Vice-President, Dom Claude. Alas! nothing more."

"How is your superb house in the Rue Saint-Andre des Arcs coming on?
'Tis a Louvre. I love greatly the apricot tree which is carved on the
door, with this play of words: 'A L'ABRI-COTIER--Sheltered from reefs.'"

"Alas! Master Claude, all that masonry costeth me dear. In proportion as
the house is erected, I am ruined."

"Ho! have you not your revenue