These were no other than Max
Grimeau and Blind Bartemy, the brace of beggars whose post was at
the gate of the Basse Ville. They seemed to be comparing the amount
of alms each had received during the day, and were arranging for a
supper at some obscure haunt they frequented in the purlieus of the
lower town, when another figure came up, short, dapper, and carrying
a knapsack, as Angelique could detect by the glimmer of a lantern
that hung on a rope stretched across the street. He was greeted
warmly by the old mendicants.
"Sure as my old musket it is Master Pothier, and nobody else!"
exclaimed Max Grimeau rising, and giving the newcomer a hearty
embrace. "Don't you see, Bartemy? He has been foraging among the
fat wives of the south shore. What a cheek he blows--red as a
peony, and fat as a Dutch Burgomaster!" Max had seen plenty of the
world when he marched under Marshal de Belleisle, so he was at no
loss for apt comparisons.
"Yes!" replied Blind Bartemy, holding out his hand to be shaken. "I
see by your voice, Master Pothier, that you have not said grace over
bare bones during your absence.
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