more the pies would not have been eaten up to the last
crumb!" Maitre Guillot's face beamed like a harvest moon, as he chimed
in with the well-known ditty in praise of the great pie of Rouen:

"'C'est dans la ville de Rouen,
Ils ont fait un pate si grand,
Ils ont fait un pate si grand,
Qu'ils ont trouve un homme dedans!'"

Maitre Guillot would fain have been nearer, to share in the shouting and
clapping of hands which followed the saying of grace by the good Cure of
St. Foye, and to see how vigorously knives were handled, and how chins
wagged in the delightful task of levelling down mountains of meat, while
Gascon wine and Norman cider flowed from ever-replenished flagons.

The Bourgeois and his son, with many of his chief guests, honored for
a time the merry feast out-of-doors, and were almost inundated by the
flowing cups drunk to the health and happiness of the Bourgeois and of
Pierre Philibert.

Maitre Guillot Gobet returned to his kitchen, where he stirred up his
cooks and scullions on all sides, to make up for the loss of his Easter
pies on the grand tables in the hall. He capered among them like a
marionette, directing here, scolding there, laughing, joking, or with
uplifted hands and stamping feet despairing of his underlings' cooking a
dinner fit for the fete of Pierre Philibert.

Maitre Guilot was a little, fat, red-nosed fellow, with twinkling black
eyes, and a mouth irascible as that of a cake-baker of Lerna. His heart
was of the right paste, however, and full as a butter-boat of the sweet
sauce of good nature, which he was ready to pour over the heads of all
his fellows who quietly submitted to his dictation. But woe to man or
maid servant who delayed or disputed his royal orders! An Indian typhoon
instantly blew. At such a time even Dame Rochelle would gather her
petticoats round her and hurry out of the storm, which always subsided
quickly in proportion to the violence of its rage.

Maitre Guillot knew what he was about, however. He did not use, he said,
to wipe his nose with a herring! and on that day he was going to cook a
dinner fit for the Pope after Lent, or even for the Reverend Father De
Berey himself, who was the truest gourmet and the best trencherman in
New France.

Maitre Guillot honored his master, but in his secret soul he did not
think his taste quite worthy of his cook! But he worshipped Father
De Berey, and gloried in the infallible judgment and correc