"I understand begging; and that is getting without cheating, and
much more to the purpose," replied Max, hotly. "Look you, Master
Pothier! you are learned as three curates; but I can get more money
in the gate of the Basse Ville by simply standing still and crying
out Pour l'amour de Dieu! than you with your budget of law lingo-
jingo, running up and down the country until the dogs eat off the
calves of your legs, as they say in the Nivernois."
"Well, never mind what they say in the Nivernois about the calves of
my legs! Bon coq ne fut jamais gras!--a game-cock is never fat--and
that is Master Pothier dit Robin. Lean as are my calves, they will
carry away as much of your eel pie to-night as those of the stoutest
carter in Quebec!"
"And the pie is baked by this time; so let us be jogging!"
interrupted Bartemy, rising. "Now give me your arm, Max! and with
Master Pothier's on the other side, I shall walk to the Fleur-de-Lis
straight as a steeple."
The glorious prospect of supper made all three merry as crickets on
a warm hearth, as they jogged over the pavement in their clouted
shoes, little suspecting they had left a flame of anger in the
breast of Angelique des Meloises, kindled by the few words of
Pothier respecting the lady of Beaumanoir.
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