Master Pothier sat on a horse-block at the door with all the gravity
of a judge, while he waited for the return of Colonel Philibert and
listened to the lively noise in the Chateau, the music, song, and
jingle of glass forming a sweet concert in the ears of the jolly old
notary.
"I shall not need you to guide me back, Master Pothier," said
Philibert, as he put some silver pieces in his hollow palm; "take
your fee. The cause is gained, is it not, Le Gardeur?" He glanced
triumphantly at his friend.
"Good-by, Master Pothier," said he, as he rode off with Le Gardeur.
The old notary could not keep up with them, but came jolting on
behind, well pleased to have leisure to count and jingle his coins.
Master Pothier was in that state of joyful anticipation when hope
outruns realization. He already saw himself seated in the old
armchair in the snug parlor of Dame Bedard's inn, his back to the
fire, his belly to the table, a smoking dish of roast in the middle,
an ample trencher before him with a bottle of Cognac on one flank
and a jug of Norman cider on the other, an old crony or two to eat
and drink with him, and the light foot and deft hand of pretty Zoe
Bedard to wait upon them.
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