“Why, certainly, Madame, and glad to do so! So Master Pothier make haste, get the sorrel nag, and let us be off.”
“I will be back in the snap of a pen, or in the time Dame Bédard can draw that cup of Cognac, your Honor.”
“Master Pothier is quite a personage, I see,” remarked Philibert, as the old notary shuffled off to saddle the nag.
“Oh, quite, your Honor. He is the sharpest notary, they say, that travels the road. When he gets people into law they never can get out. He is so clever, everybody says! Why, he assures me that even the Intendant consults him sometimes as they sit eating and drinking half the night together in the buttery at the Château!”
“Really! I must be careful what I say,” replied Philibert, laughing, “or I shall get into hot water! But here he comes.”
As he spoke, Master Pothier came up, mounted on a raw-boned nag, lank as the remains of a twenty-years lawsuit. Zoë, at a hint from the Colonel, handed him a cup of Cognac, which he quaffed without breathing, smacking his lips emphatically after it. He called out to the landlady,—“Take care of my knapsack, dame! You had better burn the house than lose my papers! Adieu, Zoë! study over the marriage contract till I return, and I shall be sure of a good dinner from your pretty hands.”
They set off at a round trot. Colonel Philibert, impatient to reach Beaumanoir, spurred on for a while, hardly noticing the absurd figure of his guide, whose legs stuck out like a pair of compasses beneath his tattered gown, his shaking head threatening dislodgment to hat and wig, while his elbows churned at every jolt, making play with the shuffling gait of his spavined and wall-eyed nag.
CHAPTER VI. BEAUMANOIR.
They rode on in silence. A little beyond the village of Charlebourg they suddenly turned into the forest of Beaumanoir, where a well-beaten track, practicable both for carriages and horses, gave indications that the resort of visitors to the Château was neither small nor seldom.