"As the weather wills." Bouchard bent toward the fire and with the aid of a pair of tongs drew forth the end of a broken spit, white with heat. This he plunged into a tankard of spiced port; and at once there arose a fragrant steam. He dropped the smoking metal to the floor, and drank deeply from the tankard. "Zachary, we shall see spring all glorious at Quebec, which is the most beautiful promontory in all the world. Upon its cliffs France will build her a new and mighty Paris. You will become a great captain, and I shall grow as rich as our host's cousin."
"Amen; and may the Holy Virgin speed us to the promised land." Du Puys blew above his head a winding cloud of smoke. "A brave race, these black cassocks; for they carry the Word into the jaws of death. Ad majorem Dei gloriam. There was Father Jogues. What privations, what tortures he endured! And an Iroquois sank a hatchet into his brain. I have seen the Spaniard at his worst, the Italian, the Turk, but for matchless cruelty the Iroquois has no rival. And this cunning Mazarin promises and promises us money and men, while those who reckon on his word struggle and die. Ah well, monseigneur has the gout; he will die of it."
"And this Marquis de Périgny; will not Father Chaumonot waste his time?" asked the mariner.
"Who can say? The marquis is a strange man. He is neither Catholic nor Huguenot; he fears neither God nor the devil. He laughs at death, since to him there is no hereafter. Yet withal, he is a man of justice and of many generous impulses. But woe to the man who crosses his path. His peasants are well fed and clothed warmly; his servants refuse to leave him. He was one of the gayest and wildest courtiers in Paris, a man who has killed twenty men in duels. There are two things that may be said in his favor; he is without hypocrisy, and is an honest and fearless enemy. Louis XIII was his friend, the Duc de Rohan his comrade. He has called Gaston of Orléans a coward to his face.
"He was one of those gallants who, when Richelieu passed an edict concerning the loose women of the city, placed one in the cardinal's chamber and accused him of breaking his own edict. Richelieu annulled the act, but he never forgave the marquis for telling the story to Madame de Montbazon, who in turn related it to the queen. The marquis threw his hat in the face of the Duc de Longueville when the latter accused him of receiving billets from madame. There was a duel. The duke carried a bad arm to Normandy, and the marquis dined a week with the governor of the Bastille. That was the marquis's last affair. It happened before the Fronde. Since then he has remained in seclusion, fortifying himself against old age. His hôtel is in the Rue des Augustines, near the former residence of Henri II.
"The marquis's son you have seen—drunk most of the time. Happy his mother, who died at his birth. 'Tis a pity, too, for the boy has a good heart and wrongs no one but himself. He has been sent home from court in disgrace, though what disgrace no one seems to know. Some piece of gallantry, no doubt, which ended in a duel. He and his father are at odds. They seldom speak. The Chevalier, having money, drinks and gambles. The Vicomte d'Halluys won a thousand livres from him last night in the private assembly."
"Wild blood," said Bouchard, draining his tankard. "France has too much of it. Wine and dicing and women: fine snares the devil sets with these. How have you recruited?"
"Tolerably well. Twenty gentlemen will sail with us; mostly improvident younger sons. But what's this turmoil between our comrade Nicot and Maître le Borgne?" sliding his booted legs to the floor and sitting upright.
Bouchard glanced over his shoulder. Nicot was waving his arms and pointing to his vis-à-vis at the table, while the innkeeper was shrugging and bowing and spreading his hands.
"He leaves the table," cried Nicot, "or I leave the inn."