What a list he placed before the gourmand! There were hams boiled in

sherry or madeira with pistachios, eels, reared in soft water and fed

on chickens' entrails and served with anchovy paste and garlic, fried

stuffed pigs' ears, eggs with cocks' combs, dormice in honey, pigeons

with mushrooms, crabs boiled in sherry, crawfish and salmon and

lobster, caviar pickled in the brine of spring-salt, pheasants stuffed

with chestnuts and lambs' hearts, grainless cheeses, raisins soaked in

honey and brandy, potted hare, chicken sausages, mutton fed on the

marshes, boars boned and served whole and stuffed with oysters,--a list

which would have opened the eyes of such an indifferent eater as

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Lucullus!

There was a private hall for the ladies and the nobly born; but the

common assembly-room was invariably chosen by all those who were not

accompanied by ladies. The huge fireplace, with high-backed benches

jutting out from each side of it, the quaint, heavy bowlegged tables

and chairs, the liberality of lights, the continuous coming and going

of the brilliantly uniformed officers stationed at Fort Louis, the

silks and satins of the nobles, the soberer woolens of the burghers and

seamen, all combined to give the room a peculiar charm and color.

Thus, with the golden pistole of Spain, the louis and crown and livre

of France, and the stray Holland and English coins, Maître le Borgne

began quickly to gorge his treasure-chests; and no one begrudged him,

unless it was Maître Olivet of the Pomme de Pin.

Outside the storm continued. The windows and casements shuddered

spasmodically, and the festive horn and cherubs creaked dismally on the

rusted hinges. The early watch passed by, banging their staffs on the

cobbles and doubtless cursing their unfortunate calling. Two of them

carried lanterns which swung in harmony to the tread of feet, causing

long, weird, shadowy legs to race back and forth across the sea-walls.

The muffled stroke of a bell sounded frequently, coming presumably from

the episcopal palace, since the historic bell in the Hôtel de Ville was

permitted no longer to ring.

Inside the tavern it was warm enough. Maître le Borgne, a short,

portly man with a high benevolent crown, as bald as the eggs he turned

into omelets, stood somewhat back from the roaring chimney, one hand

under his ample apron-belt, the other polishing his shining dome. He

was perplexed. Neither the noise of the storm nor the frequent clatter

of a dish as it fell to the floor disturbed him. A potboy, rushing

past with his arms full of tankards, bumped into the landlord; but not

even this aroused him. His gaze wandered from the right-hand bench to

the left-hand bench, and back again, from the nut-brown military

countenance of Captain Zachary du Puys, soldier of fortune, to the

sea-withered countenance of Joseph Bouchard, master of the good ship

Saint Laurent, which lay in the harbor.




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