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
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.