Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes, beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard — you know who he is, he gives holy water at Saint Eustache — — ”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head.
That great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”