It was, in the country, a word of
opprobrium, but at Beaumanoir it was laughed at with true Gallic
nonchalance. Indeed, to show their scorn of public opinion, the
Grand Company had lately launched a new ship upon the Great Lakes to
carry on the fur trade, and had appropriately and mockingly named
her, "La Friponne."
The toast of La Friponne was drunk with applause, followed by a wild
bacchanalian song.
The Sieur Morin had been a merchant in Bordeaux whose bond was held
in as little value as his word. He had lately removed to New
France, transferred the bulk of his merchandise to the Friponne,
and become an active agent of the Grand Company.
"La Friponne!" cried he; "I have drunk success to her with all my
heart and throat; but I say she will never wear a night-cap and
sleep quietly in our arms until we muzzle the Golden Dog that barks
by night and by day in the Rue Buade."
"That is true, Morin!", interrupted Varin. "The Grand Company will
never know peace until we send the Bourgeois, his master, back to
the Bastille. The Golden Dog is--"
"Damn the Golden Dog!" exclaimed Bigot, passionately.
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