At the head of the table sat Master Pothier, with a black earthen mug of Norman cider in one hand and a pipe in the other. His budget of law hung on a peg in the corner, as quite superfluous at a free- and-easy at the Fleur-de-Lis.
Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy had arrived in good time for the eel pie. They sat one on each side of Master Pothier, full as ticks and merry as grigs; a jolly chorus was in progress as Cadet entered.
The company rose and bowed to the gentlemen who had honored them with a call. "Pray sit down, gentlemen; take our chairs!" exclaimed Master Pothier, officiously offering his to Cadet, who accepted it as well as the black mug, of which he drank heartily, declaring old Norman cider suited his taste better than the choicest wine.
"We are your most humble servitors, and highly esteem the honor of your visit," said Master Pothier, as he refilled the black mug.
"Jolly fellows!" replied Cadet, stretching his legs refreshingly, "this does look comfortable. Do you drink cider because you like it, or because you cannot afford better?"
"There is nothing better than Norman cider, except Cognac brandy," replied Master Pothier, grinning from ear to ear. "Norman cider is fit for a king, and with a lining of brandy is drink for a Pope! It will make a man see stars at noonday. Won't it, Bartemy?"
"What! old turn-penny! are you here?" cried Cadet, recognizing the old beggar of the gate of the Basse Ville.
"Oh, yes, your Honor!" replied Bartemy, with his professional whine, "pour l'amour de Dieu!"
"Gad! you are the jolliest beggar I know out of the Friponne," replied Cadet, throwing him a crown.
"He is not a jollier beggar than I am, your Honor," said Max Grimeau, grinning like an Alsatian over a Strasbourg pie. "It was I sang bass in the ballad as you came in--you might have heard me, your Honor?"
"To be sure I did; I will be sworn there is not a jollier beggar in Quebec than you, old Max! Here is a crown for you too, to drink the Intendant's health and another for you, you roving limb of the law, Master Pothier! Come, Master Pothier! I will fill your ragged gown full as a demijohn of brandy if you will go on with the song you were singing."
"We were at the old ballad of the Pont d'Avignon, your Honor," replied Master Pothier.
"And I was playing it," interrupted Jean La Marche; "you might have heard my violin, it is a good one!" Jean would not hide his talent in a napkin on so auspicious an occasion as this. He ran his bow over the strings and played a few bars,--"that was the tune, your Honor."
"Ay, that was it! I know the jolly old song! Now go on!" Cadet thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his laced waistcoat and listened attentively; rough as he was, he liked the old Canadian music.
Jean tuned his fiddle afresh, and placing it with a knowing jerk under his chin, and with an air of conceit worthy of Lulli, began to sing and play the old ballad:
"'A St. Malo, beau port de mer, Trois navires sont arrives, Charges d'avoine, charges de bled;
Trois dames s'en vont les merchander!'"
"Tut!" exclaimed Varin, "who cares for things that have no more point in them than a dumpling! give us a madrigal, or one of the devil's ditties from the Quartier Latin!"
"I do not know a 'devil's ditty,' and would not sing one if I did," replied Jean La Marche, jealous of the ballads of his own New France. "Indians cannot swear because they know no oaths, and habitans cannot sing devil's ditties because they never learned them; but 'St. Malo, beau port de mer,'--I will sing that with any man in the Colony!"
The popular songs of the French Canadians are ******, almost infantine, in their language, and as chaste in expression as the hymns of other countries. Impure songs originate in classes who know better, and revel from choice in musical slang and indecency.
