“'A round dozen of them, my Lord Bishop!' replied Bigot, laughing. La! It takes the Intendant to talk down a Bishop! He bade my Lord not to trouble himself, the lady was under his tutelle! which I comprehended as little, as little--” “As you do your Nominy Dominy!” replied Pothier. “Don't be angry, Max, if I infer that the Intendant quoted Pigean (Tit. 2, 27): 'Le Tuteur est comptable de sa gestion.'” “I don't care what the pigeons have to say to it--that is what the Intendant said!” replied Max, hotly, “and THAT, for your law grimoire, Master Pothier!” Max snapped his fingers like the lock of his musket at Prague, to indicate what he meant by THAT! “Oh, inepte loquens! you don't understand either law or Latin, Max!” exclaimed Pothier, shaking his ragged wig with an air of pity. “I understand begging; and that is getting without cheating, and much more to the purpose,” replied Max, hotly. “Look you, Master Pothier! you are learned as three curates; but I can get more money in the gate of the Basse Ville by simply standing still and crying out Pour l'amour de Dieu! than you with your budget of law lingo-jingo, running up and down the country until the dogs eat off the calves of your legs, as they say in the Nivernois.” “Well, never mind what they say in the Nivernois about the calves of my legs! Bon coq ne fut jamais gras!--a game-cock is never fat--and that is Master Pothier dit Robin. Lean as are my calves, they will carry away as much of your eel pie to-night as those of the stoutest carter in Quebec!” “And the pie is baked by this time; so let us be jogging!” interrupted Bartemy, rising. “Now give me your arm, Max! and with Master Pothier's on the other side, I shall walk to the Fleur-de-Lis straight as a steeple.” The glorious prospect of supper made all three merry as crickets on a warm hearth, as they jogged over the pavement in their clouted shoes, little suspecting they had left a flame of anger in the breast of Angélique des Meloises, kindled by the few words of Pothier respecting the lady of Beaumanoir. Angélique recalled with bitterness that the rude bearer of the note had observed something that had touched the heart and opened the purse of the Intendant. What was it? Was Bigot playing a game with Angélique des Meloises? Woe to him and the lady of Beaumanoir if he was! As she sat musing over it a knock was heard on the door of her boudoir. She left the balcony and reëntered her room, where a neat, comely girl in a servant's dress was waiting to speak to her.