Some
piece of gallantry, no doubt, which ended in a duel. He and his father
are at odds. They seldom speak. The Chevalier, having money, drinks
and gambles. The Vicomte d'Halluys won a thousand livres from him last
night in the private assembly."
"Wild blood," said Bouchard, draining his tankard. "France has too
much of it. Wine and dicing and women: fine snares the devil sets with
these. How have you recruited?"
"Tolerably well. Twenty gentlemen will sail with us; mostly
improvident younger sons. But what's this turmoil between our comrade
Nicot and Maitre le Borgne?" sliding his booted legs to the floor and
sitting upright.
Bouchard glanced over his shoulder. Nicot was waving his arms and
pointing to his _vis-a-vis_ at the table, while the innkeeper was
shrugging and bowing and spreading his hands.
"He leaves the table," cried Nicot, "or I leave the inn."
"But, Monsieur, there is no other place," protested the maitre; "and he
has paid in advance."
"I tell you he smells abominably of horse."
"I, Monsieur?" mildly inquired the cause of the argument. He was a
young man of twenty-three or four, with a countenance more ingenuous
than handsome, expressive of that mobility which is inseparable from a
nature buoyant and humorous.
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