But what's this turmoil between our comrade Nicot and Maitre le Borgne ?" sliding his booted legs to the floor and sitting upright.
Bouchard glanced over his shoulder.

Nicot was waving his arms and pointing to his _vis-a-vis_ at the table, while the innkeeper was shrugging and bowing and spreading his hands.
"He leaves the table," cried Nicot, "or I leave the inn." "But, Monsieur, there is no other place," protested the maitre; "and he has paid in advance." "I tell you he smells abominably of horse." "I, Monsieur ?" mildly inquired the cause of the argument.

He was a young man of twenty-three or four, with a countenance more ingenuous than handsome, expressive of that mobility which is inseparable from a nature buoyant and humorous.
"Thousand thunders, yes! Am I a gentleman, and a soldier, to sit with a reeking stable-boy ?" "If I smell of the horse," said the young man, calmly helping himself to a quarter of rabbit pie, "Monsieur smells strongly of the ass." Whereupon a titter ran round the room.

This did not serve to mollify the anger of the irascible Nicot, whose hand went to his sword.
"Softly, softly!" warned the youth, taking up the carving knife and jestingly testing the edge with his thumb-nail.
Some one laughed aloud.
"Monsieur Nicot, for pity's sake, remember where you are!" Maitre le Borgne pressed back the soldier.
"Ah! it is Monsieur Nicot who has such a delicate nose ?" said the youth banteringly.

"Well, Monsieur Nicot, permit me to finish this excellent pie.