The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales. Bret Harte
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a monseigneur.”
Truly the traveler, clad in the uniform of a musketeer, as he drew up to the door of the hostelry, did not seem to have spared his horse. Throwing his reins to the landlord, he leaped lightly to the ground. He was a young man of four and twenty, and spoke with a slight Gascon accent.
“I am hungry, morbleu! I wish to dine!”
The gigantic innkeeper bowed and led the way to a neat apartment, where a table stood covered with tempting viands. The musketeer at once set to work. Fowls, fish, and pates disappeared before him. Perigord sighed as he witnessed the devastations. Only once the stranger paused.
“Wine!” Perigord brought wine. The stranger drank a dozen bottles. Finally he rose to depart. Turning to the expectant landlord, he said,—
“Charge it.”
“To whom, your highness?” said Perigord anxiously.
“To his Eminence!”
“Mazarin?” ejaculated the innkeeper.
“The same. Bring me my horse,” and the musketeer, remounting his favorite animal, rode away.
The innkeeper slowly turned back into the inn. Scarcely had he reached the courtyard before the clatter of hoofs again called him to the doorway. A young musketeer of a light and graceful figure rode up.
“Parbleu, my dear Perigord, I am famishing. What have you got for dinner?”
“Venison, capons, larks, and pigeons, your excellency,” replied the obsequious landlord, bowing to the ground.
“Enough!” The young musketeer dismounted, and entered the inn. Seating himself at the table replenished by the careful Perigord, he speedily swept it as clean as the first comer.
“Some wine, my brave Perigord,” said the graceful young musketeer, as soon as he could find utterance.
Perigord brought three dozen of Charlevoix. The young man emptied them almost at a draught.
“By-by, Perigord,” he said lightly, waving his hand, as, preceding the astonished landlord, he slowly withdrew.
“But, your highness,—the bill,” said the astounded Perigord.
“Ah, the bill. Charge it!”
“To whom?”
“The Queen!”
“What, Madame?”
“The same. Adieu, my good Perigord.” And the graceful stranger rode away. An interval of quiet succeeded, in which the innkeeper gazed woefully at his wife. Suddenly he was startled by a clatter of hoofs, and an aristocratic figure stood in the doorway.
“Ah,” said the courtier good-naturedly. “What, do my eyes deceive me? No, it is the festive and luxurious Perigord. Perigord, listen. I famish. I languish. I would dine.”
The innkeeper again covered the table with viands. Again it was swept clean as the fields of Egypt before the miraculous swarm of locusts. The stranger looked up.
“Bring me another fowl, my Perigord.”
“Impossible, your excellency; the larder is stripped clean.”
“Another flitch of bacon, then.”
“Impossible, your highness; there is no more.”
“Well, then, wine!”
The landlord brought one hundred and forty-four bottles. The courtier drank them all.
“One may drink if one cannot eat,” said the aristocratic stranger good-humoredly.
The innkeeper shuddered.
The guest rose to depart. The innkeeper came slowly forward with his bill, to which he had covertly added the losses which he had suffered from the previous strangers.
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