“How are the others escaping?” “As fast as they can.” “So I imagine; but where?” “By the hole.” “Mordieu! what hole?” “The hole in the cemetery cellar.” “Is that what you call the cave?” “Oh! no; the door of that was guarded outside. The great cardinal, just as he was about to open it, heard a Swiss say, ‘Mich dwistel,’ which means, ‘I am thirsty.’” “Ventre de biche! so then they took another way?” “Yes, dear M. Chicot, they are getting out through the cellar.” “How does that run?” “From the crypt to the Porte St. Jacques.” “You lie; I should have seen them repass before this cell.” “No, dear M. Chicot; they thought they had not time for that, so they are creeping out through the air-hole.” “What hole?” “One which looks into the garden, and serves to light the cellar.” “So that you----” “I was too big, and could not pass, and they drew me back by my legs, because I intercepted the way for the others.” “Then he who is bigger than you?” “He! who?” “Oh! Holy Virgin, I promise you a dozen wax candles, if he also cannot pass.” “M. Chicot!” “Get up.” The monk raised himself from the ground as quickly as he could. “Now lead me to the hole.” “Where you wish.” “Go on, then, wretch.” Gorenflot went on as fast as he was able, while Chicot indulged himself by giving him a few blows with the cord. They traversed the corridor, and descended into the garden. “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!” 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.