Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner of the room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and slowly, and without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same silence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-pot.

Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror; were it not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently have fled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.

“Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people,” said Sir Andrew, seeing the look of horror on Marguerite’s face. “I would I could offer you a more hearty and more appetising meal … but I think you will find the soup eatable and the wine good; these people wallow in dirt, but live well as a rule.”

“Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew,” she said gently, “be not anxious about me. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper.”

Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had placed a couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of which Sir Andrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.

Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make some pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his rôle of lacquey, stood behind her chair.

“Nay, Madame, I pray you,” he said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quite unable to eat, “I beg of you to try and swallow some food—remember you have need of all your strength.”

The soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted good. Marguerite might have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings. She broke the bread, however, and drank some of the wine.

“Nay, Sir Andrew,” she said, “I do not like to see you standing. You have need of food just as much as I have. This creature will only think that I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if you’ll sit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me.”

Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon the table, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests. The Mére Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood and lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes under Marguerite’s very nose, as any free-born citizen who was anybody’s equal should do.

“Confound the brute!” said Sir Andrew, with native British wrath, as Brogard leant up against the table, smoking and looking down superciliously at these two sacrrrès Anglais.

“In Heaven’s name, man,” admonished Marguerite, hurriedly, seeing that Sir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching his fist, “remember that you are in France, and that in this year of grace this is the temper of the people.”

“I’d like to scrag the brute!” muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.

He had taken Marguerite’s advice and sat next to her at table, and they were both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by pretending to eat and drink.

“I pray you,” said Marguerite, “Keep the creature in a good temper, so that he may answer the questions we must put to him.”

“I’ll do my best, but, begad! I’d sooner scrag him than question him. Hey! my friend,” he said pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogard lightly on the shoulder, “do you see many of our quality along these parts? Many English travellers, I mean?”