A long table in the middle of the room was surrounded by a lot of
fellows, plainly of the baser sort,--sailors, boatmen, voyageurs,--
in rough clothes, and tuques--red or blue,--upon their heads. Every
one had a pipe in his mouth. Some were talking with loose,
loquacious tongues; some were singing; their ugly, jolly visages--
half illumined by the light of tallow candles stuck in iron sconces
on the wall--were worthy of the vulgar but faithful Dutch pencils of
Schalken and Teniers. They were singing a song as the new company
came in.
At the head of the table sat Master Pothier, with a black earthen
mug of Norman cider in one hand and a pipe in the other. His budget
of law hung on a peg in the corner, as quite superfluous at a free-
and-easy at the Fleur-de-Lis.
Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy had arrived in good time for the eel
pie. They sat one on each side of Master Pothier, full as ticks and
merry as grigs; a jolly chorus was in progress as Cadet entered.
The company rose and bowed to the gentlemen who had honored them
with a call.
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