“Here! this way,” said Gorenflot.
“Hold your tongue, and go on.”
“There it is,” and exhausted by his efforts, the monk sank on the grass, while Chicot, hearing groans, advanced, and saw something protruding through the hole. By the side of this something lay a frock and a sword. It was evident that the individual in the hole had taken off successively all the loose clothing which increased his size; and yet, like Gorenflot, he was making useless efforts to get through.
“Mordieu! ventrebleu! sangdien!” cried a stifled voice. “I would rather pass through the midst of the guards. Do not pull so hard, my friends; I shall come through gradually; I feel that I advance, not quickly, it is true, but I do advance.”
“Ventre de biche!” murmured Chicot, “it is M. de Mayenne. Holy Virgin, you have gained your candles.”
And he made a noise with his feet like some one running fast.
“They are coming,” cried several voices from inside.
“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!”