"Come!" cried Bigot, "you are as hard to please as Villiers Vendome, whom the King himself could not satisfy. Deschenaux says he is sorry. A gentleman cannot say more; so shake hands and be friends, De Repentigny."
Impervious to threats, and often to reason, Le Gardeur could not resist an appeal to his generosity.
He sheathed his sword, and held out his hand with frank forgiveness.
"Your apology is ample, Sieur Deschenaux. I am satisfied you meant no affront to my sister! It is my weak point, messieurs," continued he, looking firmly at the company, ready to break out had he detected the shadow of a sneer upon any one's countenance. "I honor her as I do the queen of heaven. Neither of their names ought to be spoken here."
"Well said! Le Gardeur," exclaimed the Intendant. "That's right, shake hands, and be friends again. Blessed are quarrels that lead to reconciliation and the washing out of feuds in wine. Take your seats, gentlemen."
There was a general scramble back to the table. Bigot stood up in renewed force.
"Valets!" cried he, "bring in now the largest cups! We will drink a toast five fathoms deep, in water of life strong enough to melt Cleopatra's pearls, and to a jollier dame than Egypt's queen. But first we will make Le Gardeur de Repentigny free of the guild of noble partners of the company of adventurers trading in New France."
The valets flew in and out. In a few moments the table was replenished with huge drinking-cups, silver flagons, and all the heavy impedimenta of the army of Bacchus.
"You are willing to become one of us, and enter the jolly guild of the Grand Company?" exclaimed the Intendant, taking Le Gardeur by the hand.
"Yes, I am a stranger, and you may take me in. I claim admission," replied Le Gardeur with drunken gravity, "and by St. Pigot! I will be true to the guild!"
Bigot kissed him on both cheeks. "By the boot of St. Benoit! you speak like the King of Yvetot. Le Gardeur de Repentigny, you are fit to wear fur in the Court of Burgundy."
"You can measure my foot, Bigot," replied Le Gardeur, "and satisfy the company that I am able to wear the boot of St. Benoit."
"By jolly St. Chinon! and you shall wear it, Le Gardeur," exclaimed Bigot, handing him a quart flagon of wine, which Le Gardeur drank without drawing breath. "That boot fits," shouted the Intendant exultingly; "now for the chant! I will lead. Stop the breath of any one who will not join in the chorus."
The Intendant in great voice led off a macaronic verse of Moliere, that had often made merry the orgies of Versailles:
"'Bene, bene, bene, respondere!
Dignus, dignus es, entrare In nostro laeto corpore!'"
A tintamarre of voices and a jingle of glasses accompanied the violins and tambours de Basque as the company stood up and sang the song, winding up with a grand burst at the chorus:
"'Vivat! vivat! vivat! cent fois vivat!
Novus socius qui tam bene parlat!
Mille mille annis et manget et bibat, Fripet et friponnat!'"
Hands were shaken all round, congratulations, embracings, and filthy kisses showered upon Le Gardeur to honor his admission as a partner of the Grand Company.
"And now," continued Bigot, "we will drink a draught long as the bell rope of Notre Dame. Fill up brimmers of the quintessence of the grape, and drain them dry in honor of the Friponne!"
The name was electric. It was, in the country, a word of opprobrium, but at Beaumanoir it was laughed at with true Gallic nonchalance. Indeed, to show their scorn of public opinion, the Grand Company had lately launched a new ship upon the Great Lakes to carry on the fur trade, and had appropriately and mockingly named her, "La Friponne."
The toast of La Friponne was drunk with applause, followed by a wild bacchanalian song.
The Sieur Morin had been a merchant in Bordeaux whose bond was held in as little value as his word. He had lately removed to New France, transferred the bulk of his merchandise to the Friponne, and become an active agent of the Grand Company.
"La Friponne!" cried he; "I have drunk success to her with all my heart and throat; but I say she will never wear a night-cap and sleep quietly in our arms until we muzzle the Golden Dog that barks by night and by day in the Rue Buade."
"That is true, Morin!", interrupted Varin. "The Grand Company will never know peace until we send the Bourgeois, his master, back to the Bastille. The Golden Dog is--"
"Damn the Golden Dog!" exclaimed Bigot, passionately. "Why do you utter his name, Varin, to sour our wine? I hope one day to pull down the Dog, as well as the whole kennel of the insolent Bourgeois." Then, as was his wont, concealing his feelings under a mocking gibe, "Varin," said he, "they say that it is your marrow bone the Golden Dog is gnawing--ha! ha! ha!"
"More people believe it is your Excellency's!" Varin knew he was right, but aware of Bigot's touchiness on that point, added, as is the wont of panders to great men, "It is either yours or the Cardinal's."
"Let it be the Cardinal's, then! He is still in purgatory, and there will wait the arrival of the Bourgeois, to balance accounts with him."