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Updated: June 3, 2025
Many attempts were made by Emory to carry out the object confided to him, yet all proved failures. Bayou Sorrel, Lake Chicot, Grand River, and the Plaquemine itself, from both ends of the stream, were thoroughly explored, but only to find the bayous choked with driftwood impossible to remove, and until removed rendering the streams impassable.
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.
The king, on his throne in the great hall, was surrounded by his officers, his friends, his courtiers, and his family, waiting for all the corporations to defile before him, when M. de Monsoreau entered abruptly. "Look, Henriquet," said Chicot, who was standing near the king. "At what?" "At your chief huntsman; pardieu, he is well worth it. See how pale and dirty he is!"
"He is with Chicot, waiting for the king's return from his brother." "Will you permit my page to wait here?" "Willingly, monsieur." "Enter, Jean," said Bussy, and he pointed to the embrasure of a window, where she went to hide herself. St. Luc entered, and M. de Nancey retired. "What does the king want now?" cried St. Luc, angrily; "ah! it is you, M. de Bussy,"
Then, in a low tone to her, he said, "We are allied against this Monsoreau; remember that it was not he who brought you back to your father, and be faithful to me." Chicot, after seeing with pleasure that Gorenflot still slept soundly, told M. Boutromet to retire and to take the light with him, charging him not to say anything of his absence.
Chicot then went and opened the door of communication, and called Bonhomet.
"All!" cried Chicot, as if out of breath, "it is you, miserable monk!" "Say nothing, monseigneur!" murmured the voices, "he takes you for Gorenflot." "Ah! it is you, heavy mass pondus immobile; it is you, indigesta moles!" And at each apostrophe, Chicot, arrived at last at his desired vengeance, let fall the cord with all the weight of his arm on the body before him.
The famous Chicot who was as fond of a battle as of a gibe, and who was almost as reckless a rider as his master proved on this occasion that the cap and bells could cover as much magnanimity as did the most chivalrous crest. Although desperately wounded in the struggle which had resulted in his triumph, he generously granted to the Count his freedom without ransom.
"Several millions!" cried Henri, almost with terror. "Several millions!" repeated Chicot; "a small number of malcontents, which may bring forth pretty results." "Sire," cried the duke, "I am astonished that your majesty allows me to be interrupted so often, when I am speaking on serious matters." "Quite right," said Chicot; "silence there."
"Yes, sire; good-night." "Good-evening, Chicot." "Yes, sire, you are right; the best thing Chicot can do is to go to bed." And he lay down on the floor. Henri glanced toward the door, and then, approaching him, said, "You are so drunk, my poor Chicot, that you have taken my floor for your bed." "Chicot does not mind little things." "But I expect some one."
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