CHAPTER V
THE HORN OF PLENTY AND MONSIEUR DE SAUMAISE'S POTPIE
Night, with fold on fold of ragged purple, with wide obliterating hand,came roughly down upon the ancient city of Rochelle, which seemedslowly to draw itself together and assume the proportions of a huge,menacing rock. Of the roof lines, but lately of many hues and reaches,there now remained only a long series of grotesque black profiles whichzigzagged from north to south, from ruined wall to ruined wall. Thelast dull silver gleam of day trembled a moment on the far careeninghorizon, then vanished; and presently the storm which had threatenedall through the day broke forth, doubly furious. A silent stingingsnow whipped in from the sea, and the lordly voices of the surges roseto inharmonious thunders in the straits of Antioch, or burst in ruggedchorus against the rock-bound coasts of the gloomy promontory and theisles of Re and Oleron. As the vigor of the storm increased, theharbor towers Saint Nicholas and the Chain, looming in the blur likesuppliant arms, and the sea walls began gradually to waver and recedein the accumulating haze, while across the dim yellow flame in thetower of the Lantern the snow flurried in grey, shapeless, interminableshadows. Hither and thither the wind rushed, bold and blusterous,sometimes carrying landward the intermittent crashing of the surf as itfell, wrathful yet impotent, on the great dike by which, twenty-oddyears before, the immortal Richelieu had snuffed the last heroic sparkof the Reformists.
The little ships, the great ships, the fisherman's sloop, the king'scorvette, and the merchantman, all lay anchored in the basin andharbor, their prows boring into the gale, their crude hulls rising andfalling, tossing and plunging, tugging like living things at theirhempen cables. The snow fell upon them, changing them into phantoms,all seemingly eager to join in the mad revel of the storm. And thelights at the mastheads, swooping now downward, now upward, now fromside to side, dappled the troubled waters with sickly gold. A desertof marshes behind it, a limitless sea before it, gave to this brave oldcity an isolation at once splendid and melancholy; and thricemelancholy it stood this wild March night, witnessing as it did thefinal travail of winter, pregnant with spring.
At seven o'clock the ice-clad packet from Dieppe entered the harbor anddropped anchor. Among those who disembarked were two Jesuit priestsand an Iroquois Indian, who immediately set out for the episcopalpalace. They passed unobserved through the streets, for the blinding,whirling snow turned them into shadow-shapes, or effaced them totallyfrom sight. Besides, wayfarers were few and the hardy mariners had bythis time sought the warm chimney in the favorite inn. For well theyknew that there were times when God wished to be alone with His sea;and he was either a poor Catholic or a bad Huguenot who refused to beconvinced that the Master had contrived the sea and the storm for Hisown especial pastime.
The favorite inn! What a call to food and wine and cheer the name ofthe favorite inn sounded in the ears of the mariners! It meant themantle of ease and indolence, a moment in which again to feel beneathone's feet the kindly restful earth. For in those days the voyageswere long and joyless, fraught with the innumerable perils of outlawedflags and preying navies; so that, with all his love of the sea, themariner's true goal was home port and a cozy corner in the familiarinn. There, with a cup of gin or mulled wine at his elbow and the bowlof a Holland clay propped in a horny fist, he might listen tranquillyto the sobbing of the tempest in the gaping chimney. What if the nightvoiced its pains shrewdly, walls encompassed him; what if its frozentears melted on the panes or smoked on the trampled threshold, glowinglogs sent forth a permeating heat, expanding his sense of luxury andcontent. What with the solace of the new-found weed, and the genialbrothers of the sea surrounding, tempests offered no terrors to him.
Listen. Perhaps here is some indomitable Ulysses, who, scorning ablind immortalizer, recites his own rude Odyssey. What exploits! Whatadventures on the broad seas and in the new-found wildernesses of theWest! Ah, but a man was a man then; there were no mythic gods to guideor to thwart him; and he rose or fell according to the might of his armand the length of his sword. Hate sought no flimsy pretexts, but cameforth boldly; love entered the lists neither with caution nor withmental reservation; and favor, though inconsiderate as ever, was notniggard with her largess. Truly the mariner had not to draw on hisimagination; the age of which he was a picturesque particle was a braveand gallant one: an Odyssey indeed, composed of Richelieus, sons andgrandsons of the great Henri, Buckinghams, Stuarts, Cromwells,Mazarins, and Monks; Maries de Medicis, Annes of Austria, Mesdames deLongueville; of Royalists, Frondeurs, and Commonwealth; of Catholics,Huguenots, and Puritans. Some were dead, it is true; but never a greatship passes without leaving a turbulent wake. And there, in the West,rising serenely above all these tangles of civil wars and politicalintrigues, was the splendid star of New France. Happy and envied wasthe mariner who could tell of its vast riches, of its endless forests,of its cruel brown savages, of its mighty rivers and freshwater seas.
New France! How many a ruined gamester, hearing these words, liftedhis head, the fires of hope lighting anew in his burnt-out eyes? Howmany a fallen house looked longingly toward this promised land? NewFrance! Was not the name itself Fortune's earnest, her pledge oftreasures lightly to be won? The gamester went to his garret to dreamof golden dice, the fallen noble of rehabilitated castles, the peasantof freedom and liberty. Even the solemn monk, tossing on his pallet,pierced with his gaze the grey walls of his monastery, annihilated thespace between him and the fruitful wilderness, and saw in fancy thebuilding of great cities and cathedrals and a glittering miter on hisown tonsured head.
In that day there was situate in the Rue du Palais, south of theharbor, an inn which was the delight of all those mariners whosepalates were still unimpaired by the brine of the seven seas, and whosepurses spoke well of the hazards of chance. Erected at the time whenHenri II and Diane de Poitiers turned the sober city into one oflicentious dalliance, it had cheered the wayfarer during fourgenerations. It was three stories high, constructed of stone, gabledand balconied, with a roof which resembled an assortment of fancifulnoses. Here and there the brown walls were lightened by patches ofplaster and sea-cobble; for though the buildings in the Rue du Palaishad stood in the shelter of the walls and fortifications, few had beenexempt from Monseigneur the Cardinal's iron compliments to theHuguenots.
Swinging on an iron bar which projected from the porticoed entrance,and supported by two grimacing cherubs, once daintily pink, but nowverging on rubicundity, a change due either to the vicissitudes of theweather or to the close proximity to the wine-cellars,--was a horn ofplenty, the pristine glory of which had also departed. This invitationoften excited the stranger's laughter; but the Rochellais themselvesnever laughed at it, for to them it represented a familiar object,which, however incongruous or ridiculous, is always dear to the humanheart. At night a green lantern was attached to the horn. At the leftof the building was a walled court pierced by a gate which gaveentrance to the stables. For not only the jolly mariners foundpleasure at the Corne d'Abondance. The wild bloods of the town camethither to riot and play, to junket and carouse. The inn had seen manya mad night, and on the stone flooring lay written many an invisibleepitaph.
The host himself was a man of note, one Jean le Borgne, whose cousinwas the agent of D'Aunay in the Tour-D'Aunay quarrel over Acadia in NewFrance. He had purchased the inn during the year '29, and since thattime it had become the most popular in the city; and as a result of hisenterprise, the Pomme de Pin, in the shadow of the one remaining citygate, Porte de la Grosse-Horloge, had lost the patronage of thenobility. Maitre le Borgne recognized the importance of catering moreto the jaded palate than to the palate in normal condition; hence, hispopularity. In truth, he had the most delectable vintages outside thegovernor's cellars; they came from Bordeaux, Anjou, Burgundy,Champagne, and Sicily. His cook was an excommunicated monk fromTouraine, a province, according to the merry Vicar of Meudon, in whichcooks, like poets, were born, not bred. His spits for turning a fatgoose or
capon were unrivaled even in Paris, whither his fame had gonethrough a speech of the Duc de Rohan, who said, shortly after thesiege, that if ever he gained the good graces of Louis, he would comeback for that monk.
What a list he placed before the gourmand! There were hams boiled insherry or madeira with pistachios, eels, reared in soft water and fedon chickens' entrails and served with anchovy paste and garlic, friedstuffed pigs' ears, eggs with cocks' combs, dormice in honey, pigeonswith mushrooms, crabs boiled in sherry, crawfish and salmon andlobster, caviar pickled in the brine of spring-salt, pheasants stuffedwith chestnuts and lambs' hearts, grainless cheeses, raisins soaked inhoney and brandy, potted hare, chicken sausages, mutton fed on themarshes, boars boned and served whole and stuffed with oysters,--a listwhich would have opened the eyes of such an indifferent eater asLucullus!
There was a private hall for the ladies and the nobly born; but thecommon assembly-room was invariably chosen by all those who were notaccompanied by ladies. The huge fireplace, with high-backed benchesjutting out from each side of it, the quaint, heavy bowlegged tablesand chairs, the liberality of lights, the continuous coming and goingof the brilliantly uniformed officers stationed at Fort Louis, thesilks and satins of the nobles, the soberer woolens of the burghers andseamen, all combined to give the room a peculiar charm and color.Thus, with the golden pistole of Spain, the louis and crown and livreof France, and the stray Holland and English coins, Maitre le Borgnebegan quickly to gorge his treasure-chests; and no one begrudged him,unless it was Maitre Olivet of the Pomme de Pin.
Outside the storm continued. The windows and casements shudderedspasmodically, and the festive horn and cherubs creaked dismally on therusted hinges. The early watch passed by, banging their staffs on thecobbles and doubtless cursing their unfortunate calling. Two of themcarried lanterns which swung in harmony to the tread of feet, causinglong, weird, shadowy legs to race back and forth across the sea-walls.The muffled stroke of a bell sounded frequently, coming presumably fromthe episcopal palace, since the historic bell in the Hotel de Ville waspermitted no longer to ring.
Inside the tavern it was warm enough. Maitre le Borgne, a short,portly man with a high benevolent crown, as bald as the eggs he turnedinto omelets, stood somewhat back from the roaring chimney, one handunder his ample apron-belt, the other polishing his shining dome. Hewas perplexed. Neither the noise of the storm nor the frequent clatterof a dish as it fell to the floor disturbed him. A potboy, rushingpast with his arms full of tankards, bumped into the landlord; but noteven this aroused him. His gaze wandered from the right-hand bench tothe left-hand bench, and back again, from the nut-brown militarycountenance of Captain Zachary du Puys, soldier of fortune, to thesea-withered countenance of Joseph Bouchard, master of the good shipSaint Laurent, which lay in the harbor.
"A savage!" said the host.
The soldier lowered his pipe and laughed. "Put your fears aside, goodlandlord. You are bald; it will be your salvation."
"Still," said the mariner, his mouth serious but his eyes smiling,"still, that bald crown may be a great temptation to the hatchet. Thescalping-knife or the hatchet, one or the other, it is all the same."
"Eye of the bull! does he carry his hatchet?" gasped the host,cherishing with renewed tenderness the subject of their jests. "And anIroquois, too, the most terrible of them all, they say. What shall Ido to protect my guests?"
Du Puys and Bouchard laughed boisterously, for the host's face, onwhich was a mixture of fear and doubt, was as comical as a gargoyle.
"Why not lure him into the cellar and lock him there?" suggestedBouchard.
"But my wines?"
"True. He would drink them. He would also eat your finest sausages.And, once good and drunk, he would burn down the inn about your ears."Bouchard shook his head.
"Our Lady!"
"Or give him a bed," suggested Du Pays.
"What! a bed?"
"Surely, since he must sleep like other human beings."
"With an eye open," supplemented Bouchard. "I would not trust anIroquois, saving he was dead and buried in consecrated ground." And hewagged his head as if to express his inability to pronounce in wordshis suspicions and distrust.
"And his yell will congeal the blood in thy veins," said Du Puys; "forbeside him the Turk doth but whisper. I know; I have seen and foughtthem both."
Maitre le Borgne began to perspire. "I am lost! But you, Messieurs,you will defend yourselves?"
"To the death!" both tormentors cried; then burst into laughter.
This laughter did not reassure Maitre le Borgne, who had seen Huguenotsand Catholics laughing and dying in the streets.
"Ho, Maitre, but you are a droll fellow!" Bouchard exclaimed. "ThisIndian is accompanied by Fathers Chaumonot and Jacques. It is notimpossible that they have relieved La Chaudiere Noire of his tomahawkand scalping-knife. And besides, this is France; even a Turk isharmless here. Monsieur the Black Kettle speaks French and is a devoutCatholic."
"A Catholic?" incredulously.
"Aye, pious and abstemious," with a sly glance at the innkeeper, whowas known to love his wines in proportion to his praise of them.
"The patience of these Jesuits!" the host murmured, breathing a longsigh, such as one does from whose shoulders a weight has been suddenlylifted. "Ah, Messieurs, but your joke frightened me cruelly. And theycall him the Black Kettle? But perhaps they will stay at the episcopalpalace, that is, if the host from Dieppe arrives to-night. And whotaught him French?"
"Father Chaumonot, who knows his Indian as a Turk knows his Koran."
"And does his Majesty intend to make Frenchmen of these savages?"
"They are already Frenchmen," was the answer. "There remains only toteach them how to speak and pray like Frenchmen."
"And he will be quiet and docile?" ventured the inn-keeper, who stillentertained some doubts.
"If no one offers him an indignity. The Iroquois is a proud man. ButI see Monsieur Nicot calling to you; Monsieur Nicot, whose ancestor,God bless him! introduced this weed into France;" and Du Puys refilledhis pipe, applied an ember, took off his faded baldric and rapier, andreclined full length on the bench. Maitre le Borgne hurried away toattend to the wants of Monsieur Nicot. Presently the soldier said:"Shall we sail to-morrow, Master Mariner?"
"As the weather wills." Bouchard bent toward the fire and with the aidof a pair of tongs drew forth the end of a broken spit, white withheat. This he plunged into a tankard of spiced port; and at once therearose a fragrant steam. He dropped the smoking metal to the floor, anddrank deeply from the tankard. "Zachary, we shall see spring allglorious at Quebec, which is the most beautiful promontory in all theworld. Upon its cliffs France will build her a new and mighty Paris.You will become a great captain, and I shall grow as rich as our host'scousin."
"Amen; and may the Holy Virgin speed us to the promised land." Du Puysblew above his head a winding cloud of smoke. "A brave race, theseblack cassocks; for they carry the Word into the jaws of death. _Admajorem Dei gloriam_. There was Father Jogues. What privations, whattortures he endured! And an Iroquois sank a hatchet into his brain. Ihave seen the Spaniard at his worst, the Italian, the Turk, but formatchless cruelty the Iroquois has no rival. And this cunning Mazarinpromises and promises us money and men, while those who reckon on hisword struggle and die. Ah well, monseigneur has the gout; he will dieof it."
"And this Marquis de Perigny; will not Father Chaumonot waste histime?" asked the mariner.
"Who can say? The marquis is a strange man. He is neither Catholicnor Huguenot; he fears neither God nor the devil. He laughs at death,since to him there is no hereafter. Yet withal, he is a man of justiceand of many generous impulses. But woe to the man who crosses hispath. His peasants are well fed and clothed warmly; his servantsrefuse to leave him. He was one of the gayest and wildest courtiers inParis, a man who has killed twenty men in duels. There are two thingsthat may be said in his favor; he is without hypocrisy, and is anhones
t and fearless enemy. Louis XIII was his friend, the Duc de Rohanhis comrade. He has called Gaston of Orleans a coward to his face.
"He was one of those gallants who, when Richelieu passed an edictconcerning the loose women of the city, placed one in the cardinal'schamber and accused him of breaking his own edict. Richelieu annulledthe act, but he never forgave the marquis for telling the story toMadame de Montbazon, who in turn related it to the queen. The marquisthrew his hat in the face of the Duc de Longueville when the latteraccused him of receiving billets from madame. There was a duel. Theduke carried a bad arm to Normandy, and the marquis dined a week withthe governor of the Bastille. That was the marquis's last affair. Ithappened before the Fronde. Since then he has remained in seclusion,fortifying himself against old age. His hotel is in the Rue desAugustines, near the former residence of Henri II.
"The marquis's son you have seen--drunk most of the time. Happy hismother, who died at his birth. 'Tis a pity, too, for the boy has agood heart and wrongs no one but himself. He has been sent home fromcourt in disgrace, though what disgrace no one seems to know. Somepiece of gallantry, no doubt, which ended in a duel. He and his fatherare at odds. They seldom speak. The Chevalier, having money, drinksand gambles. The Vicomte d'Halluys won a thousand livres from him lastnight in the private assembly."
"Wild blood," said Bouchard, draining his tankard. "France has toomuch of it. Wine and dicing and women: fine snares the devil sets withthese. How have you recruited?"
"Tolerably well. Twenty gentlemen will sail with us; mostlyimprovident younger sons. But what's this turmoil between our comradeNicot and Maitre le Borgne?" sliding his booted legs to the floor andsitting upright.
Bouchard glanced over his shoulder. Nicot was waving his arms andpointing to his _vis-a-vis_ at the table, while the innkeeper wasshrugging and bowing and spreading his hands.
"He leaves the table," cried Nicot, "or I leave the inn."
"But, Monsieur, there is no other place," protested the maitre; "and hehas paid in advance."
"I tell you he smells abominably of horse."
"I, Monsieur?" mildly inquired the cause of the argument. He was ayoung man of twenty-three or four, with a countenance more ingenuousthan handsome, expressive of that mobility which is inseparable from anature buoyant and humorous.
"Thousand thunders, yes! Am I a gentleman, and a soldier, to sit witha reeking stable-boy?"
"If I smell of the horse," said the young man, calmly helping himselfto a quarter of rabbit pie, "Monsieur smells strongly of the ass."
Whereupon a titter ran round the room. This did not serve to mollifythe anger of the irascible Nicot, whose hand went to his sword.
"Softly, softly!" warned the youth, taking up the carving knife andjestingly testing the edge with his thumb-nail.
Some one laughed aloud.
"Monsieur Nicot, for pity's sake, remember where you are!" Maitre leBorgne pressed back the soldier.
"Ah! it is Monsieur Nicot who has such a delicate nose?" said the youthbanteringly. "Well, Monsieur Nicot, permit me to finish this excellentpie. I have tasted nothing half so good since I left Paris."
"Postilion!" cried Nicot, pushing Le Borgne aside.
"Monsieur," continued the youth imperturbably, "I am on the king'sservice."
Several at the tables stretched their necks to observe the stranger. Acourier from the king was not an everyday event in Rochelle. De Puysrose.
"Pah!" snorted Nicot; "you look the groom a league off. Leave thetable."
"All in good time, Monsieur. If I wear the livery of a stable-boy, itis because I was compelled by certain industrious gentlemen of the roadto adopt it in exchange for my own. The devil! one does not ride nakedin March. They left me only my sword and papers and some pistoleswhich I had previously hidden in the band of my hat. Monsieur, I finda chair; I take it. Having ordered a pie, I eat it; in fact, Icontinue to eat it, though your displeasure causes me great sorrow.Sit down, or go away; otherwise you will annoy me; and I warn you thatI am something terrible when I am annoyed." But the good nature on hisface belied this statement.
"Rascal, I will flog you with the flat of my sword!" roared Nicot; andhe was about to draw when a strong hand restrained him.
"Patience, comrade, patience; you go too fast." Du Puys loosenedNicot's hand.
The young man leaned back in his chair and twirled the ends of hisblond mustache. "If I were not so tired I could enjoy this comedy.Horns of Panurge! did you Huguenots eat so many horses that your gorgerises at the smell of one?"
"Monsieur, are you indeed from the king?" asked Du Puys courteously.The very coolness of the stranger marked him as a man of importance.
"I have that honor."
"May I be so forward as to ask your name?"
"Victor de Saumaise, cadet in her Majesty's Guards, De Guitaut'scompany."
"And your business?"
"The king's, Monsieur; horns of Panurge, the king's! which is to say,none of yours." This time he pushed back his chair, stood upon hisfeet and swung his sword in place. "Is this once more a rebel city?And are you, Monsieur, successor to Guibon, the mayor, or the governorof the province, or some equally distinguished person, to question mein this fashion? I never draw my sword in pothouses; I simply dine inthem; otherwise I should be tempted to find out why a gentleman can notbe left in peace."
"Your reply, Monsieur," returned Du Puys, coloring, "would be entirelyjust were it not for the fact that a messenger from Paris directlyconcerns me. I am Captain Zachary du Puys, of Fort Louis, Quebec."
"Indeed, Captain," said De Saumaise, smiling again, "that simplifieseverything. You are one of the gentlemen whom I am come to seek."
"Monsieur," said the choleric Nicot, "accept my apologies; but,nevertheless, I still adhere to the statement, that you smell badly ofwet horses." He bowed.
"And I accept the apology and confess to the impeachment."
"And besides," said Nicot, naively, "you kicked my shin cruelly."
"What! I thought it was the table-leg! It is my turn to apologise.You no longer crave my blood?"
"No, Monsieur," sadly. Every one laughed.
Maitre le Borgne, wiped his perspiring forehead and waited for theorders which were likely to follow this amicable settlement of thedispute; and bewailed not unwisely. Brawls were the bane of hisexistence, and he did his utmost to prevent them from becoming commonaffairs at the Corne d'Abondance. He trotted off to the cellars,muttering into his beard. Nicot and the king's messenger finishedtheir supper, and then the latter was led to one of the chimney benchesby Du Puys, who was desirous of questioning him.
"Monsieur," began De Saumaise, "I am told that I bear your commissionas major." He produced a packet which he gave to the captain.
"I am perfectly aware of that. It was one of Mazarin's playfuldevices. I was to have had it while in Paris; and his Eminence put meoff for no other reason than to worry me. Ah, well, he has the gout."
"And he has also the money," laughed Victor; "and may he never ridhimself of the one till he parts from the other. But I congratulateyou, Major; and her Majesty and Father Vincent de Paul wish you well inyour perilous undertaking. Come; tell me about this wonderful NewFrance. Is it true that gold is picked up as one would pick up sand?"
"By the Hundred Associates, traders, and liquor dealers," grimly.
"Alas! I had hopes 'twere picked up without labor. The rings on mypurse slip off both ends, as the saying goes."
"Why not come to Quebec? You have influence; become a grand seigneur."
"Faith, I love my Paris too well. And I have no desire to wear out myexistence in opening paths for my descendants, always supposing I leaveany. No, no! There is small pleasure in praying all day and fightingall night. No, thank you. Paris is plenty for me." Yet there wassomething in the young man's face which spoke of fear, a nervous looksuch as one wears when caught in the toils of secret dread.
"Still, life at court must have its
pinches, since his Majesty sleepsbetween ragged sheets. What kind of money-chest does this Mazarinpossess that, engulfing all the revenues of France, the gold neverreaches high enough to be taken out again?"
"With all his faults, Mazarin is a great minister. He is a betterfinancier than Richelieu was. He is husbanding. Louis XIV will becomea great king whenever Mazarin dies. We who live shall see. Louis issimply repressed. He will burst forth all the more quickly when thetime comes."
"Is it true that her Majesty is at times attacked by a strange malady?"
"A cancer has been discovered growing in her breast."
Du Puys opened his commission and ran over it. He studied the lean,slanting chirography of the prime minister and stroked his grizzledchin. His thought went back to the days when the handsome Buckinghamthrew his pearls into an admiring crowd. "Woman and the world's end,"he mused. "Who will solve them?"
"Who indeed!" echoed Victor, resting his chin on the knuckles of hishand. "Monsieur, you have heard of the Chevalier du Cevennes?"
"Aye; recently dismissed from court, stripped of his honors, and exiledin disgrace."
"I am here to command his immediate return to Paris," and De Saumaiseblinked moodily at the fire.
"And what brought about this good fortune?"
"His innocence and another man's honesty."
"Ah!"
"Monsieur, you are a man of experience; are there not times when thebest of us are unable to surmount temptation?"
"Only his Holiness is infallible."
"The Chevalier was unjustly exiled for a crime he knew nothing about.He suffered all this ignominy to save a comrade in arms, whom hebelieved to be guilty, but who was as innocent as himself. Only a weekago this comrade became aware of what had happened. Even had he beenguilty he would not have made profit from his friend's generosity. Itwas fine of the chevalier; do you not agree with me?"
"Then the Chevalier is not all bad?" said Du Puys.
"No. But he is the son of his father. You have met the Marquis dePerigny?"
"Only to pass him on the streets. But here comes the host with thepunch. What shall the toast be?"
"New France."
"My compliments on your good taste."
And they bowed gravely to each other, drinking in silence. The youthrenewed his gaze at the fire, this time attracted by the chimney sootas it wavered above the springing flames, now incandescent, now blackas jet, now tearing itself from the brick and flying heavenward.Sometimes the low, fierce music of the storm could be heard in thechimney. Du Puys, glancing over the lid of his pewter pot, observedthe young man kindly.
"Monsieur," he asked, "are you related to the poet De Saumaise?"
The youth lifted his head, disclosing an embarrassed smile. "Yes,Monsieur. I have the ill-luck to be that very person."
"Then I am doubly glad to meet you. While in Paris I heard yourpraises sung not infrequently."
The poet held up a protesting hand. "You overwhelm me, Monsieur. If Iwrite an occasional ballade, it is for the mere pleasure of writing,and not because I seek notoriety such as Voiture enjoyed when in favor."
"I like that ballade of yours on 'Henri at Cahors.' It has the truemartial ring to it that captivates the soldier."
"Thanks, Monsieur; from a man like you such praise is poisonouslysweet. Can you direct me to the Hotel de Perigny? I must see theChevalier to-night."
"I will myself show you the way," said Du Puys, standing. "But wait awhile. The Chevalier usually spends the evening here."
"Drinking?"
"Drinking and dicing."
Victor rose just as a small uproar occurred in the hallway. The dooropened and a dozen cavaliers and officers came crowding in. All madefor the fire, stamping and jostling and laughing. The leader, his eyesbloodshot and the lower lids puffed and discolored, threw his hat tothe ceiling and caught it on his boot.
"Maitre--ho!" he cried. "Bring us the bowl, the merry bowl, the jollyand hot bowl. The devil himself must hunt for cheer to-night. How itblows!"
"In the private assembly, Messieurs," said the host caressingly; "inthe private assembly. All is ready but the hot water." Andrespectfully, though determinedly, as one would guide a flock of sheep,he turned the roisterers toward the door that led into the privateassembly-room. He had just learned that the Jesuits had arrived andthat there was no room for them at the episcopal palace, and that theywere on their way to the Corne d'Abondance. He did not desire them toform a poor opinion as to the moral character of the establishment. Heknew the temper of these wild bloods; they were safer by themselves.
All the arrivals passed noisily into the private assembly: all save theleader, who was seen suddenly to steady himself after the manner of adrunken man trying to recover his dignity.
"Victor?" he cried in dismay.
"Paul?" frankly joyous.
In a moment they had embraced and were holding each other off at arm'slength.