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Updated: May 11, 2025
We beggars save more souls than the Cure; for we are always exhorting men to charity. I think we ought to be part of Holy Church as well as the Gray Friars." "And so we are part of Holy Church, Bartemy!" interrupted Max Grimeau. "When the good Bishop washed twelve pair of our dirty feet on Maunday Thursday in the Cathedral, I felt like an Apostle I did!
At the head of the table sat Master Pothier, with a black earthen mug of Norman cider in one hand and a pipe in the other. His budget of law hung on a peg in the corner, as quite superfluous at a free-and-easy at the Fleur-de-Lis. Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy had arrived in good time for the eel pie.
He was greeted warmly by the old mendicants. "Sure as my old musket it is Master Pothier, and nobody else!" exclaimed Max Grimeau rising, and giving the newcomer a hearty embrace. "Don't you see, Bartemy? He has been foraging among the fat wives of the south shore. What a cheek he blows red as a peony, and fat as a Dutch Burgomaster!"
These were no other than Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy, the brace of beggars whose post was at the gate of the Basse Ville.
"He is not a jollier beggar than I am, your Honor," said Max Grimeau, grinning like an Alsatian over a Strasbourg pie. "It was I sang bass in the ballad as you came in you might have heard me, your Honor?" "To be sure I did; I will be sworn there is not a jollier beggar in Quebec than you, old Max!
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