At this sound the Governor, as little able to conceive whence it originated as De Blenau himself, drew his sword, and throwing open the door, discovered the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur, Cuisinier Aubergiste, striding in triumph over the prostrate body of the sentinel, and waving over his head an immense stew-pan, being the weapon with which he had achieved the victory, and through which appeared a small round hole, caused by the ball of the soldier’s firelock. In the mean while was to be seen the sentinel on the ground, his iron morion actually dented by the blows of his adversary, and his face and garments bedabbled, not with blood, indeed, but with the Poulet en blanquette and its white sauce, which had erst been tenant of the stew-pan.
“Victoria! Victoria! Victoria!” shouted the aubergiste, waving his stew-pan; “Twice have I conquered in one night! Can Mieleraye or Bouillon say that? Victoria! Victoria!” But here his triumph received a check; for looking into the unhappy utensil, he suddenly perceived the loss of its contents, which had flown all over the place, the treacherous lid having detached itself during his conflict with the sentinel, and sought safety in flight down the stairs. “Mon Poulet! mon Poulet!” exclaimed he, in a tone of bitter despair, “le nid y est, mais l’oiseau est parti,—the nest is there, but the bird is flown. Helas, mon Poulet! mon pauvre Poulet!” and quitting the body of his prostrate foe, he advanced into the apartment with that sort of zig-zag motion which showed that the thin sinewy shanks which supported his woodcock-shaped upper man, were somewhat affected by a more than usual quantity of the generous grape.
The whole scene was so inexpressibly ludicrous, that De Blenau burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which the Governor could not help joining, notwithstanding his indignation at the treatment the sentinel had experienced. Recovering himself, however, he poured forth his wrath upon the aubergiste in no measured terms, demanding how he dared to conduct himself so in the Royal Chateau of the Bastille, and what had become of the Count de Blenau’s supper, adding a few qualificatory epithets, which may as well be omitted.
“Eh bien, Monsieur! Eh bien!” cried the aubergiste, with very little respect for the Governor: “as for the gentleman there, lying on his belly, he ought to have let me in, and not fired his piece at me. He knew me well enough. He might have cried Qui vive? once,—that was well, as it is the etiquette.”
“But why did you not answer him, sacré maraud?” cried the Governor.
“I did answer him,” replied the other, stoutly. “He cried Qui vive? and I answered Le Diable, car le Diable vive toujours. And as for the supper, I have lost it all. Je l’ai perdu entre deux mâtins. The first was a greedy Norman vagabond, who feeds at my auberge; and while I was out for a minute, he whips me up my matelot d’anguille from out of the casserole, and my dinde piquée from the spit, and when I came back five minutes after, there was nothing left but bare bones and empty bottles. Pardie! And now I have bestowed on the head of that varlet a poulet en blanquette that might have comforted the stomach of a King. Oh Dieu! Dieu! mes malheurs ne finiront jamais. Oh! but I forgot,” he continued, “there is still a fricandeau à l’oseille with a cold paté, that will do for want of a better.—Monseigneur, votre serviteur,” and he bowed five or six times to De Blenau; “Monsieur le Gouverneur, votre très humble,” and bowing round and round to every one, even to the sentinel, who by this time was beginning to recover his feet, the tipsy aubergiste staggered off, escaping the wrath of the Governor by the promise of the fricandeau, but not, however, without being threatened with punishment on the morrow.
CHAPTER XII.
The bureau of a Counsellor of State, or how things were managed in 1642.
“MARTEVILLE, you have served me essentially,” said the Count de Chavigni as soon as he had left Pauline in what was called the ladies’ hall of the Hotel de Bouthilliers, addressing the tall Norman, whom the reader has already recognised beyond a doubt. “You know I never suffer any good service to go without its reward; therefore I will now pay you yours, more especially as I have fresh demands to make upon your zeal. Let us see how our accounts stand;” and approaching a small table, which served both for the purposes of a writing-desk and also to support a strong ebony cabinet clasped with silver, he drew forth a bunch of keys and opened a drawer plated with iron, which contained a quantity of gold and silver coin. Chavigni then seated himself at the table, and the Norman standing on his right hand, they began regularly to balance accounts, the items of the Norman’s charge being various services of rather a curious nature.
“For stopping the Archduke’s courier,” said Chavigni, “and taking from him his despatches—fifty crowns is enough for that.”