"He is not a jollier beggar than I am, your Honor," said Max
Grimeau, grinning like an Alsatian over a Strasbourg pie. "It was I
sang bass in the ballad as you came in--you might have heard me,
your Honor?"
"To be sure I did; I will be sworn there is not a jollier beggar in
Quebec than you, old Max! Here is a crown for you too, to drink the
Intendant's health and another for you, you roving limb of the law,
Master Pothier! Come, Master Pothier! I will fill your ragged gown
full as a demijohn of brandy if you will go on with the song you
were singing."
"We were at the old ballad of the Pont d'Avignon, your Honor,"
replied Master Pothier.
"And I was playing it," interrupted Jean La Marche; "you might have
heard my violin, it is a good one!" Jean would not hide his talent
in a napkin on so auspicious an occasion as this. He ran his bow
over the strings and played a few bars,--"that was the tune, your
Honor."
"Ay, that was it! I know the jolly old song! Now go on!" Cadet
thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his laced waistcoat and
listened attentively; rough as he was, he liked the old Canadian
music.
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