Palais de Justice, and black robes in the country when we
can get them! Look here at my robe of dignity!" He held up the tattered
tail of his gown with a ludicrous air. "The profession of notary is
meat, drink, and lodging: every man's house is free to me--his bed and
board I share, and there is neither wedding, christening, nor funeral,
in ten parishes that can go on without me. Governors and intendants
flourish and fall, but Jean Pothier dit Robin, the itinerant notary,
lives merrily: men may do without bread, but they will not live without
law--at least, in this noble, litigious New France of ours."

"Your profession seems quite indispensable, then!" remarked Philibert.

"Indispensable! I should think so! Without proper actes the world would
soon come to an end, as did Adam's happiness in Eden, for want of a
notary."

"A notary, Master Pothier?"

"Yes, your Honor. It is clear that Adam lost his first estate de usis et
fructibus in the Garden of Eden, simply because there was no notary to
draw up for him an indefeasable lease. Why, he had not even a bail a
chaptal (a chattel mortgage) over the beasts he had himself named!"

"Ah!" replied Philibert, smiling, "I thought Adam lost his estate
through a cunning notary who persuaded his wife to break the lease he
held; and poor Adam lost possession because he could not find a second
notary to defend his title."

"Hum! that might be; but judgment went by default, as I have read.
It would be different now; there are notaries, in New France and Old,
capable of beating Lucifer himself in a process for either soul, body,
or estate! But, thank fortune, we are out of this thick forest now."

The travellers had reached the other verge of the forest of Beaumanoir.
A broad plain dotted with clumps of fair trees lay spread out in a royal
domain, overlooked by a steep, wooded mountain. A silvery brook crossed
by a rustic bridge ran through the park. In the centre was a huge
cluster of gardens and patriarchal trees, out of the midst of which rose
the steep roof, chimneys, and gilded vanes, flashing in the sun, of the
Chateau of Beaumanoir.

The Chateau was a long, heavy structure of stone, gabled and pointed
in the style of the preceding century--strong enough for defence, and
elegant enough for the abode of the Royal Intendant of New France. It
had been built, some four-score years previously, by the Intendant Jean
Talon, as a quiet retreat when tired with the importunities of