ink. Is it empty?" continued he, turning
to Bonhomet.

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 re