What a list he placed before the gourmand!  There were hams boiled in sherry or madeira with pistachios, eels, reared in soft water and fed on chickens’ entrails and served with anchovy paste and garlic, fried stuffed pigs’ ears, eggs with cocks’ combs, dormice in honey, pigeons with mushrooms, crabs boiled in sherry, crawfish and salmon and lobster, caviar pickled in the brine of spring-salt, pheasants stuffed with chestnuts and lambs’ hearts, grainless cheeses, raisins soaked in honey and brandy, potted hare, chicken sausages, mutton fed on the marshes, boars boned and served whole and stuffed with oysters,—­a list which would have opened the eyes of such an indifferent eater as Lucullus!

There was a private hall for the ladies and the nobly born; but the common assembly-room was invariably chosen by all those who were not accompanied by ladies.  The huge fireplace, with high-backed benches jutting out from each side of it, the quaint, heavy bowlegged tables and chairs, the liberality of lights, the continuous coming and going of the brilliantly uniformed officers stationed at Fort Louis, the silks and satins of the nobles, the soberer woolens of the burghers and seamen, all combined to give the room a peculiar charm and color.  Thus, with the golden pistole of Spain, the louis and crown and livre of France, and the stray Holland and English coins, Maitre le Borgne began quickly to gorge his treasure-chests; and no one begrudged him, unless it was Maitre Olivet of the Pomme de Pin.

Outside the storm continued.  The windows and casements shuddered spasmodically, and the festive horn and cherubs creaked dismally on the rusted hinges.  The early watch passed by, banging their staffs on the cobbles and doubtless cursing their unfortunate calling.  Two of them carried lanterns which swung in harmony to the tread of feet, causing long, weird, shadowy legs to race back and forth across the sea-walls.  The muffled stroke of a bell sounded frequently, coming presumably from the episcopal palace, since the historic bell in the Hotel de Ville was permitted no longer to ring.

Inside the tavern it was warm enough.  Maitre le Borgne, a short, portly man with a high benevolent crown, as bald as the eggs he turned into omelets, stood somewhat back from the roaring chimney, one hand under his ample apron-belt, the other polishing his shining dome.  He was perplexed.  Neither the noise of the storm nor the frequent clatter of a dish as it fell to the floor disturbed him.  A potboy, rushing past with his arms full of tankards, bumped into the landlord; but not even this aroused him.  His gaze wandered from the right-hand bench to the left-hand bench, and back again, from the nut-brown military countenance of Captain Zachary du Puys, soldier of fortune, to the sea-withered countenance of Joseph Bouchard, master of the good ship Saint Laurent, which lay in the harbor.

“A savage!” said the host.

The soldier lowered his pipe and laughed.  “Put your fears aside, good landlord.  You are bald; it will be your salvation.”