Chicot then went and opened the door of communication, and called Bonhomet.
He had no occasion to call twice, for the innkeeper had been listening at the door, and had successively heard the noise of tables and stools, the clashing of swords, and the fall of a heavy body; besides, the worthy M. Bonhomet had particularly, after the confidence which had been reposed in him, too extensive an experience of the character of gentlemen of the sword in general, and of that of Chicot in particular, not to have guessed, step by step, what had taken place.
The only thing of which he was ignorant was, which of the two adversaries had fallen.
It must, however, be said in praise of Maître Bonhomet that his face assumed an expression of real satisfaction when he heard Chicot's voice, and when he saw that it was the Gascon who, safe and sound, opened the door.
Chicot, whom nothing escaped, remarked the expression of his countenance, and was inwardly pleased at it.
Bonhomet, tremblingly, entered the apartment.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, as he saw the captain's body bathed in blood.
"Yes, my poor Bonhomet," said Chicot; "this is what we have come to; our dear captain here is very ill, as you see."
"Oh! my good Monsieur Chicot, my good Monsieur Chicot!" exclaimed Bonhomet, ready to faint.
"Well, what?" inquired Chicot.