Vive le Roi vaillant!
Ce diable a quatre
A le triple talent,
De boire et de battre,
Et d'etre un vert galant!'"

When the noisy party arrived at the Fleur-de-Lis, they entered without
ceremony into a spacious room--low, with heavy beams and with roughly
plastered walls, which were stuck over with proclamations of governors
and intendants and dingy ballads brought by sailors from French ports.

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. "Pray sit down, gentlemen; take our chairs!" exclaimed Master
Pothier, officiously offering his to Cadet, who accepted it as well as
the black mug, of which he drank heartily, declaring old Norman cider
suited his taste better than the choicest wine.

"We are your most humble servitors, and highly esteem the honor of your
visit," said Master Pothier, as he refilled the black mug.

"Jolly fellows!" replied Cadet, stretching his legs refreshingly,
"this does look comfortable. Do you drink cider because you like it, or
because you cannot afford better?"

"There is nothing better than Norman cider, except Cognac brandy,"
replied Master Pothier, grinning from ear to ear. "Norman cider is fit
for a king, and with a lining of brandy is drink for a Pope! It will
make a man see stars at noonday. Won't it, Bartemy?"

"What! old turn-penny! are you here?" cried Cadet, recognizing the old
beggar of the gate of the Basse Ville.

"Oh, yes, your Honor!" replied Bartemy, wit