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 dr