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.
“Silence!” whispered the voices again; “he takes you for Gorenflot.”
Mayenne only uttered groans, and made immense efforts to get through.
“Ah! conspirator!” cried Chicot again; “ah! unworthy monk, this is for your drunkenness, this for idleness, this for anger, this for greediness, and this for all the vices you have.”
“M. Chicot, have pity,” whispered Gorenflot.
“And here, traitor, this is for your treason,” continued Chicot.
“Ah! why did it not please God to substitute for your vulgar carcass the high and mighty shoulders of the Duc de Mayenue, to whom I owe a volley of blows, the interest of which has been accumulating for seven years!”
“Chicot!” cried the duke.
“Yes, Chicot, unworthy servant of the king, who wishes he had the hundred arms of Briareus for this occasion.”
And he redoubled his blows with such violence, that the sufferer, making a tremendous effort, pushed himself through, and fell torn and bleeding into the arms of his friends. Chicot’s last blow fell into empty space. He turned, and saw that the true Gorenflot had fainted with terror.