“Indeed, Captain,” said De Saumaise, smiling again, “that simplifies everything.  You are one of the gentlemen whom I am come to seek.”

“Monsieur,” said the choleric Nicot, “accept my apologies; but, nevertheless, I still adhere to the statement, that you smell badly of wet horses.”  He bowed.

“And I accept the apology and confess to the impeachment.”

“And besides,” said Nicot, naively, “you kicked my shin cruelly.”

“What!  I thought it was the table-leg!  It is my turn to apologise.  You no longer crave my blood?”

“No, Monsieur,” sadly.  Every one laughed.

Maitre le Borgne, wiped his perspiring forehead and waited for the orders which were likely to follow this amicable settlement of the dispute; and bewailed not unwisely.  Brawls were the bane of his existence, and he did his utmost to prevent them from becoming common affairs at the Corne d’Abondance.  He trotted off to the cellars, muttering into his beard.  Nicot and the king’s messenger finished their supper, and then the latter was led to one of the chimney benches by Du Puys, who was desirous of questioning him.

“Monsieur,” began De Saumaise, “I am told that I bear your commission as major.”  He produced a packet which he gave to the captain.

“I am perfectly aware of that.  It was one of Mazarin’s playful devices.  I was to have had it while in Paris; and his Eminence put me off for no other reason than to worry me.  Ah, well, he has the gout.”

“And he has also the money,” laughed Victor; “and may he never rid himself of the one till he parts from the other.  But I congratulate you, Major; and her Majesty and Father Vincent de Paul wish you well in your perilous undertaking.  Come; tell me about this wonderful New France.  Is it true that gold is picked up as one would pick up sand?”

“By the Hundred Associates, traders, and liquor dealers,” grimly.

“Alas!  I had hopes ’twere picked up without labor.  The rings on my purse slip off both ends, as the saying goes.”

“Why not come to Quebec?  You have influence; become a grand seigneur.”

“Faith, I love my Paris too well.  And I have no desire to wear out my existence in opening paths for my descendants, always supposing I leave any.  No, no!  There is small pleasure in praying all day and fighting all night.  No, thank you.  Paris is plenty for me.”  Yet there was something in the young man’s face which spoke of fear, a nervous look such as one wears when caught in the toils of secret dread.

“Still, life at court must have its pinches, since his Majesty sleeps between ragged sheets.  What kind of money-chest does this Mazarin possess that, engulfing all the revenues of France, the gold never reaches high enough to be taken out again?”

“With all his faults, Mazarin is a great minister.  He is a better financier than Richelieu was.  He is husbanding.  Louis XIV will become a great king whenever Mazarin dies.  We who live shall see.  Louis is simply repressed.  He will burst forth all the more quickly when the time comes.”