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.”
Bigot hated the Bourgeois Philibert as one hates the man he has injured. Bigot had been instrumental in his banishment years ago from France, when the bold Norman count defended the persecuted Jansenists in the Parliament of Rouen. The Intendant hated him now for his wealth and prosperity in New France. But his wrath turned to fury when he saw the tablet of the Golden Dog, with its taunting inscription, glaring upon the front of the magazine in the Rue Buade. Bigot felt the full meaning and significance of the words that burned into his soul, and for which he hoped one day to be revenged.
“Confusion to the whole litter of the Golden Dog, and that is the party of the Honnêtes Gens!” cried he. “But for that canting savant who plays the Governor here, I would pull down the sign and hang its master up in its stead to-morrow!”
The company now grew still more hilarious and noisy in their cups. Few paid attention to what the Intendant was saying. But De Repentigny heard him utter the words, “Oh, for men who dare do men's deeds!” He caught the eye of De Repentigny, and added, “But we are all cowards in the Grand Company, and are afraid of the Bourgeois.”
The wine was bubbling in the brain of Le Gardeur. He scarcely knew what the Intendant said, but he caught the last words.
“Whom do you call cowards, Chevalier? I have joined the Grand Company. If the rest are cowards, I am not: I stand ready to pluck the peruke off the head of any man in New France, and carry it on my sword to the Place d' Armes, where I will challenge all the world to come and take it!”
“Pish! that is nothing! give me man's work. I want to see the partner in the Grand Company who dare pull down the Golden Dog.”
“I dare! and I dare!” exclaimed a dozen voices at once in response to the appeal of the Intendant, who craftily meant his challenge to ensnare only Le Gardeur.
“And I dare; and I will, too, if you wish it, Chevalier!” shouted Le Gardeur, mad with wine, and quite oblivious of the thousand claims of the father of his friend, Pierre Philibert, upon him.
“I take you at your word, Le Gardeur! and bind your honor to it in the presence of all these gentlemen,” said Bigot with a look of intense satisfaction.
“When shall it be done—to-day?” Le Gardeur seemed ready to pluck the moon from the sky in his present state of ecstasy.
“Why, no, not to-day; not before the pear is ripe will we pluck it! Your word of honor will keep till then?”
Bigot was in great glee over the success of his stratagem to entrap De Repentigny.
“It will keep a thousand years!” replied Le Gardeur, amid a fresh outburst of merriment round the board which culminated in a shameless song, fit only for a revel of satyrs.
The Sieur Cadet lolled lazily in his chair, his eyes blinking with a sleepy leer. “We are getting stupidly drunk. Bigot,” said he; “we want something new to rouse us all to fresh life. Will you let me offer a toast?”
“Go on, Cadet! offer what toast you please. There is nothing in heaven, hell, or upon earth that I won't drink to for your sake.”
“I want you to drink it on your knees, Bigot! pledge me that, and fill your biggest cup.”
“We will drink it on all fours if you like! come, out with your toast, Cadet; you are as long over it as Father Glapion's sermon in Lent! and it will be as interesting, I dare say!”
“Well, Chevalier, the Grand Company, after toasting all the beauties of Quebec, desire to drink the health of the fair mistress of Beaumanoir, and in her presence too!” said Cadet with owlish gravity.
Bigot started; drunk and reckless as he was, he did not like his secret to be divulged. He was angry with Cadet for referring to it in the presence of so many who knew not that a strange lady was residing at Beaumanoir. He was too thoroughly a libertine of the period to feel any moral compunction for any excess he committed. He was habitually more ready to glory over his conquests, than to deny or extenuate them. But in this case he had, to the surprise of Cadet, been very reticent, and shy of speaking of this lady even to him.
“They say she is a miracle of beauty, Bigot!” continued Cadet, “and that you are so jealous of the charms of your belle Gabrielle that you are afraid to show her to your best friends.”
“My belle Gabrielle is at liberty to go where she pleases, Cadet!” Bigot saw the absurdity of anger, but he felt it, nevertheless. “She chooses not to leave her bower, to look even on you, Cadet! I warrant you she has not slept all night, listening to your infernal din.”
“Then, I hope you will allow us to go and beg pardon on our knees for disturbing her rest. What say the good company?”
“Agreed, agreed!” was the general response, and all pressed the Intendant vociferously to allow them to see the fair mistress of Beaumanoir.
Varin, however, proposed that she should be brought into the hall. “Send her to us, O King,” cried he; “we are nobles of Persia, and this is Shushan the palace, where we carouse according to the law of the Medes, seven days at a stretch. Let the King bring in Queen Vashti, to show her beauty to the princes and nobles of his court!”
Bigot, too full of wine to weigh scruples, yielded to the wish of his boon companions. He rose from his chair, which in his absence was taken by Cadet. “Mind!” said he, “if I bring her in, you shall show her every respect.”
“We will kiss the dust of her feet,” answered Cadet, “and consider you the greatest king of a feast in New France or Old.”
Bigot, without further parley, passed out of the hall, traversed a long corridor and entered an anteroom, where he found Dame Tremblay, the old housekeeper, dozing on her chair. He roused her up, and bade her go to the inner chamber to summon her mistress.
The housekeeper rose in a moment at the voice of the Intendant. She was a comely dame, with a ruddy cheek, and an eye in her head that looked inquisitively at her master as she arranged her cap and threw back her rather gay ribbons.
“I want your mistress up in the great hall! Go