Bonhomet answered that it was, and Borromee then led Chicot to the little room already so well known to all readers of “Chicot, the Jester.”

“Now,” said Borromee, “wait here for me while I avail myself of a privilege 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 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 Borromee, 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 Borromee 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 Borromee 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.”

CHAPTER LXXXI.

What happened in the little room.