“It would be all the same, Cadet, I fancy—Satan or she! But where is Bigot? I expected him here.”
“Oh, he is in a tantrum to-night, and would not come. That piece of his at Beaumanoir is a thorn in his flesh, and a snow-ball on his spirits. She is taming him. By St. Cocufin! Bigot loves that woman!”
“I told you that before, Cadet. I saw it a month ago, and was sure of it on that night when he would not bring her up to show her to us.”
“Such a fool, De Pean, to care for any woman! What will Bigot do with her, think you?”
“How should I know? Send her adrift some fine day I suppose, down the Rivière du Loup. He will, if he is a sensible man. He dare not marry any woman without license from La Pompadour, you know. The jolly fish-woman holds a tight rein over her favorites. Bigot may keep as many women as Solomon—the more the merrier; but woe befall him if he marries without La Pompadour's consent! They say she herself dotes on Bigot,—that is the reason.” De Pean really believed that was the reason; and certainly there was reason for suspecting it.
“Cadet! Cadet!” exclaimed several voices. “You are fined a basket of champagne for leaving the table.”
“I'll pay it,” replied he, “and double it; but it is hot as Tartarus in here. I feel like a grilled salmon.” And indeed, Cadet's broad, sensual face was red and glowing as a harvest moon. He walked a little unsteady too, and his naturally coarse voice sounded thick, but his hard brain never gave way beyond a certain point under any quantity of liquor.
“I am going to get some fresh air,” said he. “I shall walk as far as the Fleur-de-Lis. They never go to bed at that jolly old inn.”
“I will go with you!” “And I!” exclaimed a dozen voices.
“Come on then; we will all go to the old dog-hole, where they keep the best brandy in Quebec. It is smuggled of course, but that makes it all the better.”