The result was, that daggers and rapiers were lowered before Chicot, who continued to laugh in their faces.
However, the king’s menaces and Crillon’s blows became more vehement, and it was evident that the door could not long resist such an attack. Thus, after a moment’s deliberation, the Duc de Guise gave the order for retreat. This order made Chicot smile, for, during his nights with Gorenflot, he had examined the cave and found out the door, of which he had informed the king, who had placed there Torquenot, lieutenant of the Swiss guards. It was then evident that the leaguers, one after another, were about to throw themselves into the trap. The cardinal made off first, followed by about twenty gentlemen. Then Chicot saw the duke pass with about the same number, and afterwards Mayenne. When Chicot saw him go he laughed outright. Ten minutes passed, during which he listened earnestly, thinking to hear the noise of the leaguers sent back into the cave, but to his astonishment, the sound continued to go further and further off. His laugh began to change into oaths. Time passed, and the leaguers did not return; had they seen that the door was guarded and found another way out? Chicot was about to rush from the cell, when all at once the door was obstructed by a mass which fell at his feet, and began to tear its hair.
“Ah! wretch that I am!” cried the monk. “Oh! my good M. Chicot, pardon me, pardon me!”
How did Gorenflot, who went first, return now alone? was the question that presented itself to Chicot’s mind.
“Oh! my good M. Chicot!” he continued to cry, “pardon your unworthy friend, who repents at your knees.”
“But how is it you have not fled with the others?”
“Because the Lord in His anger has struck me with obesity, and I could not pass where the others did. Oh! unlucky stomach! Oh! miserable paunch!” cried the monk, striking with his two hands the part he apostrophized. “Ah! why am not I thin like you, M. Chicot?”
Chicot understood nothing of the lamentations of the monk.
“But the others are flying, then?” cried he, in a voice of thunder.
“Pardieu! what should they do? Wait to be hung? Oh! unlucky paunch!”