“You can measure my foot, Bigot,” replied Le Gardeur, “and satisfy the company that I am able to wear the boot of St. Benoit.” “By jolly St. Chinon! and you shall wear it, Le Gardeur,” exclaimed Bigot, handing him a quart flagon of wine, which Le Gardeur drank without drawing breath. “That boot fits,” shouted the Intendant exultingly; “now for the chant! I will lead. Stop the breath of any one who will not join in the chorus.” The Intendant in great voice led off a macaronic verse of Molière, that had often made merry the orgies of Versailles: “'Bene, bene, bene, respondere! Dignus, dignus es, entrare In nostro laeto corpore!'” A tintamarre of voices and a jingle of glasses accompanied the violins and tambours de Basque as the company stood up and sang the song, winding up with a grand burst at the chorus: “'Vivat! vivat! vivat! cent fois vivat! Novus socius qui tam bene parlat! Mille mille annis et manget et bibat, Fripet et friponnat!'” Hands were shaken all round, congratulations, embracings, and filthy kisses showered upon Le Gardeur to honor his admission as a partner of the Grand Company. “And now,” continued Bigot, “we will drink a draught long as the bell rope of Notre Dame. Fill up brimmers of the quintessence of the grape, and drain them dry in honor of the Friponne!” The name was electric. It was, in the country, a word of opprobrium, but at Beaumanoir it was laughed at with true Gallic nonchalance. Indeed, to show their scorn of public opinion, the Grand Company had lately launched a new ship upon the Great Lakes to carry on the fur trade, and had appropriately and mockingly named her, “La Friponne.” The toast of La Friponne was drunk with applause, followed by a wild bacchanalian song. The Sieur Morin had been a merchant in Bordeaux whose bond was held in as little value as his word. He had lately removed to New France, transferred the bulk of his merchandise to the Friponne, and become an active agent of the Grand Company. “La Friponne!” cried he; “I have drunk success to her with all my heart and throat; but I say she will never wear a night-cap and sleep quietly in our arms until we muzzle the Golden Dog that barks by night and by day in the Rue Buade.” “That is true, Morin!”, interrupted Varin. “The Grand Company will never know peace until we send the Bourgeois, his master, back to the Bastille. The Golden Dog is--” “Damn the Golden Dog!” exclaimed Bigot, passionately. “Why do you utter his name, Varin, to sour our wine? I hope one day to pull down the Dog, as well as the whole kennel of the insolent Bourgeois.” Then, as was his wont, concealing his feelings under a mocking gibe, “Varin,” said he, “they say that it is your marrow bone the Golden Dog is gnawing--ha! ha! ha!”