United States or Japan ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
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."
Between the two shoulders the doublet was pierced through, and a spot of blood as large and round as a silver crown piece reddened the edges of the hole. "Blood!" cried Bonhomet, "blood! Ah, you are wounded!" "Wait, wait." And Chicot unfastened his doublet and his shirt. "Now look!" he said. "Oh! you wore a cuirass!
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.
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.
Tribulat Bonhomet, solemn and childish, a Claire Lenoir, farcical and sinister, with blue spectacles, round and large as franc pieces, which covered her almost dead eyes.
"Pardieu! it is precisely on account of this letter reaching its destination intact that you will receive a recompense." "The letter contains a secret, then?" "In such times as the present there are secrets in everything, my dear Bonhomet."
Just as he had finished reading it, Maître Bonhomet returned with the oil, the wine, the paper, and the pen. Chicot arranged the pen, ink, and paper before him, sat himself down at the table, and turned his back with stoical indifference toward Bonhomet for him to operate upon. The latter understood the pantomime, and began to rub it.
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.
But as for being a person who does not know where his ancestors lived, I reply, as did Bonhomet when he reached heaven and the Lord said to him: 'Still a chimney-doctor, Bonhomet? 'And you, Lord?. For you were born in Bourgogne, Monsieur de Montfanon, of an ancient family, related to all the nobility-upon which I congratulate you and you have lived here in Rome for almost twenty-four years, in the Cosmopolis which you revile."
"Oh! my good Monsieur Chicot, my good Monsieur Chicot!" exclaimed Bonhomet, ready to faint. "Well, what?" inquired Chicot. "It is very unkind of you to have chosen my inn for this execution; such a handsome captain, too!" "Would you sooner have seen Chicot lying there, and Borromée alive?" "No, oh no!" cried the host, from the very bottom of his heart.
Word Of The Day