The Château seemed a very pandemonium of riot and revelry, that prolonged the night into the day, and defied the very order of nature by its audacious disregard of all decency of time, place, and circumstance.
“In God's name, what means all this, Master Pothier?” exclaimed Philibert, as they hastily dismounted and, tying their horses to a tree, entered the broad walk that led to the terrace.
“That concert going on, your Honor?”—Master Pothier shook his head to express disapproval, and smiled to express his inborn sympathy with feasting and good-fellowship—“that, your Honor, is the heel of the hunt, the hanging up of the antlers of the stag by the gay chasseurs who are visiting the Intendant!”
“A hunting party, you mean? To think that men could stand such brutishness, even to please the Intendant!”
“Stand! your Honor. I wager my gown that most of the chasseurs are lying under the table by this time, although by the noise they make it must be allowed there are some burly fellows upon their legs yet, who keep the wine flowing like the cow of Montmorency.”
“'Tis horrible! 'tis damnable!” Philibert grew pale with passion and struck his thigh with his palm, as was his wont when very angry. “Rioting in drunkenness when the Colony demands the cool head, the strong arm, and the true heart of every man among us! Oh, my country! my dear country! what fate is thine to expect when men like these are thy rulers?”
“Your Honor must be a stranger in New France or you would not express such hasty, honest sentiments upon the Intendant's hospitality. It is not the fashion, except among plain-spoken habitans, who always talk downright Norman.” Master Pothier looked approvingly at Colonel Philibert, who, listening with indignant ears, scarcely heeded his guide.
“That is a jolly song, your Honor,” continued Pothier, waving one hand in cadence to a ditty in praise of wine, which a loud voice was heard singing in the Château, accompanied by a rousing chorus which startled the very pigeons on the roof and chimney-stacks. Colonel Philibert recognized the song as one he had heard in the Quartier Latin, during his student life in Paris—he fancied he recognized the voice also:
“'Pour des vins de prix
Vendons tous nos livres!
C'est pen d'être gris,
Amis, soyons ivres!
Bon.
La Faridondaine!
Gai.
La Faridondé!'”
A roar of voices and a clash of glasses followed the refrain. Master Pothier's eyes winked and blinked in sympathy. The old notary stood on tiptoe, with outspread palms, as with ore rotundo he threw in a few notes of his own to fill up the chorus.