CHAPTER LXXX.
THE CORNE D'ABONDANCE.
The way along which Borromee led Chicot, never suspecting that he knewit as well as himself, recalled to our Gascon the happy days of hisyouth. How many times had he in those days, under the rays of the wintersun, or in the cool shade in summer, sought out this house, toward whicha stranger was now conducting him. Then a few pieces of gold, or even ofsilver, jingling in his purse, made him happier than a king; and he gavehimself up to the delightful pleasures of laziness, having no wife norchildren starving, or scolding and suspicious, at home. Then Chicot usedto sit down carelessly on the wooden bench, waiting for Gorenflot, who,however, was always exact to the time fixed for dinner; and then he usedto study, with intelligent curiosity, Gorenflot in all his differentshades of drunkenness.
Soon the great street of St. Jacques appeared to his eyes, the cloisterof St. Benoit, and nearly in front of that the hotel of the Corned'Abondance, rather dirty, and rather dilapidated, but still shaded byits planes and chestnuts, and embellished inside by its pots of shiningcopper, and brilliant saucepans, looking like imitations of gold andsilver, and bringing real gold and silver into the pockets of theinnkeeper. Chicot bent his back until he seemed to lose five or sixinches of his height, and making a most hideous grimace, prepared tomeet his old friend Bonhomet. However, as Borromee walked first, it wasto him that Bonhomet spoke, and he scarcely looked at Chicot, who stoodbehind. Time had left its traces on the face of Bonhomet, as well as onhis house. Besides the wrinkles which seem to correspond on the humanface to the cracks made by time on the front of buildings, M. Bonhomethad assumed airs of great importance since Chicot had seen him last.These, however, he never showed much to men of a warlike appearance, forwhom he had always a great respect.
It seemed to Chicot that nothing was changed excepting the tint of theceiling, which from gray had turned to black.
"Come, friend," said Borromee, "I know a little nook where two men maytalk at their ease while they drink. Is it empty?" continued he, turningto Bonhomet.
Bonhomet answered that it was, and Borromee then led Chicot to thelittle room already so well known to all readers of "Chicot, theJester."
"Now," said Borromee, "wait here for me while I avail myself of aprivilege granted to the habitues of this house."
"What is that?"
"To go to the cellar and fetch one's own wine."
"Ah! a jolly privilege. Go, then."
Borromee went out. Chicot watched him disappear, and then went to thewall and raised a picture, representing Credit killed by bad paymasters,behind which was a hole, through which you could see into the publicroom. Chicot knew this hole well, for it was his own making.
On looking through, he perceived Borromee, after placing his finger onhis lips, as a sign of caution, say something to Bonhomet, who seemed toacquiesce by a nod of the head, after which Borromee took a light, whichwas always kept burning in readiness, and descended to the cellar. ThenChicot knocked on the wall in a peculiar manner. On hearing this knock,which seemed to recall to him some souvenir deeply rooted in his heart,Bonhomet started, and looked round him. Chicot knocked againimpatiently, like a man angry at his first call not being answered.Bonhomet ran to the little room, and found Chicot standing thereupright. At this sight Bonhomet, who, like the rest of the world, hadbelieved Chicot dead, uttered a cry, for he believed he saw a ghost.
"Since when," said Chicot, "has a person like me been obliged to calltwice?"
"Oh! dear M. Chicot, is it you or your shade?" cried Bonhomet.
"Whichever it be, since you recognize me, I hope you will obey me."
"Oh! certainly, dear M. Chicot."
"Then whatever noise you hear in this room, and whatever takes placehere, do not come until I call you."
"Your directions will be the easier to obey, since they are exactly thesame as your companion has just given to me."
"Yes, but if he calls, do not come--wait until I call."--"I will, M.Chicot."
"Good! now send away every one else from your inn, and in ten minuteslet us be as free and as solitary here as if we came to fast on GoodFriday."
"In ten minutes, M. Chicot, there shall not be a soul in the hotelexcepting your humble servant."
"Go, Bonhomet; you are not changed, I see."
"Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" said Bonhomet, as he retired, "what is aboutto take place in my poor house?"
As he went, he met Borromee returning from the cellar with his bottles.
We do not know how Bonhomet managed, but when the ten minutes hadexpired, the last customer was crossing the threshold of the door,muttering:
"Oh! oh! the weather is stormy here to-day; we must avoid the storm."