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.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93