THE CORNE D'ABONDANCE.
The way along which Borromée led Chicot, never suspecting that he knew
it as well as himself, recalled to our Gascon the happy days of his
youth. How many times had he in those days, under the rays of the winter
sun, or in the cool shade in summer, sought out this house, toward which
a stranger was now conducting him. Then a few pieces of gold, or even of
silver, jingling in his purse, made him happier than a king; and he gave
himself up to the delightful pleasures of laziness, having no wife nor
children starving, or scolding and suspicious, at home. Then Chicot used
to sit down carelessly on the wooden bench, waiting for Gorenflot, who,
however, was always exact to the time fixed for dinner; and then he used
to study, with intelligent curiosity, Gorenflot in all his different
shades of drunkenness.
Soon the great street of St. Jacques appeared to his eyes, the cloister
of St. Benoit, and nearly in front of that the hotel of the Corne
d'Abondance, rather dirty, and rather dilapidated, but still shaded by
its planes and chestnuts, and embellished inside by its pots of shining
copper, and brilliant saucepans, looking like imitations of gold and
silver, and bringing real gold and silver into the pockets of the
innkeeper. Chicot bent his back until he seemed to lose five or six
inches of his height, and making a most hideous grimace, prepared to
meet his old friend Bonhomet. However, as Borromée walked first, it was
to him that Bonhomet spoke, and he scarcely looked at Chicot, who stood
behind. Time had left its traces on the face of Bonhomet, as well as on
his house. Besides the wrinkles which seem to correspond on the human
face to the cracks made by time on the front of buildings, M. Bonhomet
had assumed airs of great importance since Chicot had seen him last.
These, however, he never showed much to men of a warlike appearance, for
whom he had always a great respect.
It seemed to Chicot that nothing was changed excepting the tint of the
ceiling, which from gray had turned to black.
"Come, friend," said Borromée, "I know a little nook where two men may
talk at their ease while they drink. Is it empty?" continued he, turning
to Bonhomet.
Bonhomet answered that it was, and Borromée then led Chicot to the
little room already so well known to all readers of "Chicot, the
Jester."
"Now," said Borromée, "wait here for me while I avail myself of a
privilege granted to the habitués of this house."
"What is that?"
"To go to the cellar and fetch one's own wine."
"Ah! a jolly privilege. Go, then."
Borromée went out. Chicot watched him disappear, and then went to the
wall and raised a picture, representing Credit killed by bad paymasters,
behind which was a hole, through which you could see into the public
room. Chicot knew this hole well, for it was his own making.
On looking through, he perceived Borromée, after placing his finger on
his lips, as a sign of caution, say something to Bonhomet, who seemed to
acquiesce by a nod of the head, after which Borromée took a light, which
was always kept burning in readiness, and descended to the cellar. Then
Chicot 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 again
impatiently, like a man angry at his first call not being answered.
Bonhomet ran to the little room, and found Chicot standing there
upright. At this sight Bonhomet, who, like the rest of the world, had
believed Chicot dead, uttered a cry, for he believed he saw a ghost.
"Since when," said Chicot, "has a person like me been obliged to call
twice?"
"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 place
here, do not come until I call you."
"Your directions will be the easier to obey, since they are exactly the
same 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 minutes
let us be as free and as solitary here as if we came to fast on Good
Friday."
"In ten minutes, M. Chicot, there shall not be a soul in the hotel
excepting your humble servant."
"Go, Bonhomet; you are not changed, I see."
"Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" said Bonhomet, as he retired, "what is about
to take place in my poor house?"
As he went, he met Borromée returning from the cellar with his bottles.
We do not know how Bonhomet managed, but when the ten minutes had
expired, 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."