“Oh! yes, at once.”

“Come, then.”

“Where is it?”

“Near the Porte Bourdelle.  The host appreciates well the difference between palates like yours and mine, and those of every thirsty passer-by.”

“Can we talk there?”

“Perfectly at our ease.”

“Oh!  I see you are well known there.”

“Ma foi, no; this time you are wrong.  M. Bonhomet sells me wine when I want it, and I pay when I can; that is all.”

“Bonhomet! that is a name that promises well.”

“And keeps its promise.  Come, compere.”

“Oh! oh!” said Chicot to himself; “now I must choose among my best grimaces; for if Bonhomet recognizes me at once, it is all over.”

CHAPTER LXXX.

The Corne D’ABONDANCE.

The way along which Borromee 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 Borromee 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 Borromee, “I know a little nook where two men may talk at their ease while they drink.  Is it empty?” continued he, turning to Bonhomet.