"Bless me if I know how that old lady does it!" he sighed. "We have ten now—or maybe 'tis twelve. But I am not sure. I must count up when I return this year."
He clapped his hands, and a soldier in the undress uniform of the French marine troops, who formed the major part of the garrison of Canada, entered.
"François," announced Joncaire, "this is Jean Courbevoir, who will be my guest until he departs. He has been in Arles, François. Remember that. It should be a part of each young man's training to visit Arles.
"What he orders you will render to him. Now bring us the flagon of wine which Monsieur Bigon sent out this Spring."
The soldier saluted me as if I were a marshal of France, and brought in the flagon of the intendant's wine with the exquisite reverence which only a son of France could bestow upon the choicest product of the soil of France.
"Pour it out, François," commanded Joncaire.
The soldier hesitated.
"And Monsieur de Lery?" he said.
"A thousand million curses!" exploded Joncaire. "Am I to wait for him? Am I to sacrifice my choicest wine in his gullet!"
"Who is Monsieur de Lery?" I asked as François filled a thick mug with the ruby juice.