And he sank into an easy chair in which he would have been hidden but for his rotundity, and propping up his little legs with another seat, lighted a mighty pipe, the bowl whereof was fashioned like a dragon’s head, which vomited forth smoke from its nostrils in a manner terrible to behold.
It was a cold night. There were large logs of wood blazing and crackling up the chimney from the iron dogs, and amongst the glowing embers that surrounded them various culinary utensils were embedded, some of which sent forth fragrant odours of strong drinks or savoury extracts, whilst on a spit, formed of an old rapier, was impaled a pheasant, which the Gascon, Jean Blacquart, was industriously turning round as he sat upon the floor with his back against the chimney-projection, humming a student’s song, to which he made the bird revolve, in proper measure.
Everything looked very comfortable. The cloth was laid for supper, and bright pewter vessels and horn mugs with silver rims caught the light from the fire, which likewise threw its warm glow upon the ceiling and made the shadows dance and flicker on the walls. It was not so pleasant without. The frost was hard; the snow fell heavily; and the cold wind came roaring up the narrow streets, chasing all the cut-purses and evil company before it, much faster than all the guards of the night could have done even at the points of their halberds.
‘I think you might change your love-song for a sprightly dance, Jean,’ said Maître Picard. ‘Your tender pauses, during which the spit stops, do but scorch the breast of the bird, whilst the back profits not.’
‘It is an emblem of love, in general,’ replied the Gascon; ‘seeing that our breast is doubly warmed thereby, whilst our back comes off but badly, especially if our sweetheart is expensive, and requires of one the price of three doublets to make one robe.’
‘I was in love once,’ said Maître Picard, ‘but it is a long time ago. It wastes the substance of a portly man. Had I not eaten twice my ordinary allowance I should have fallen under the attack. The presents, too, which I offered to my lady were of great value, and none were ever returned.’
‘I never give presents,’ observed the Gascon, ‘for I have found in many hundred cases that my affection is considered above all price, and received as such.’
‘But suppose a rival of more pretensions comes to oppose you?’ said Maître Picard.
‘I never had a rival,’ said Blacquart grandly; ‘and I never shall. Admitting one was to presume and cross my path, he would find no ordinary antagonist. With this stalwart arm and a trusty blade I would mince him before he knew where he was.’ And in his enthusiasm he caught hold of the handle of the rapier, which formed the spit, and brandished it about, perfectly forgetting the presence of the pheasant, and firmly convinced that his chivalric energies were really in action. He took no heed of the remonstrance of Maître Picard, until a sudden and violent knocking at the street door so frightened him in the midst of his imaginary bravery that he let the rapier fall, and bird, spit, and all tumbled on the floor.
‘Cap de dis! it made me jump,’ observed the Gascon. ‘What can it be, at this time of night?’