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He directed them and then, finding that he had emerged upon the other side of the town, returned in search of the Inn, his stride somewhat more rapid than before. Of one thing he was now certain. They must get away from the main road without any further delay. He found Monsieur Duchanel smoking a pipe upon his door-sill.
They dined alone at the Htel des Rois, Monsieur Duchanel himself doing them the honor of serving the repast, which Hermia soon discovered had none of the characteristics of the vagabond fare promised her a velvety soup petits pois la crme, an entre, then poulet rti, salade endive, cheese and coffee a meal for the gods, which these mortals partook of with unusual enjoyment.
The coffee served, their host departed with one last inquiry for their comfort, which more even than the cooking and service betrayed his appreciation of their proper condition. "Such a dinner!" said Hermia contemptuously when he went out. "I'm so disappointed. Where are your crust and sour wine, John Markham? I'm losing faith in your sincerity. I 'ask for bread' and you give me poulet Duchanel.
It was not until they had reached the Inn of Monsieur Duchanel some time later that Hermia, having divested herself of the orchestral adjuncts of her costume, confided to Markham the stroke of good fortune which had put her into possession of this providential accoutrement.
It was no wonder that he had passed the hostelry by; for saving a small sign obscured by the shadows of the trees, the house, an ancient affair of timber and plaster, differed little from the others which faced the street. Monsieur Duchanel was a short, round-bellied, dust-colored man, with gray hair and a tuft upon his chin.
Monsieur Duchanel, a cousin of hers, took great pride in receiving guests who knew good fare. All the while she was appraising with a Norman eye the value of the feather in Hermia's hat. "We thought of going on to Boisset," Markham went on. "Perhaps it is too far to reach by nightfall." "Oh, mon Dieu, yes if one is walking ten kilometers at the least. Did Monsieur and Madame desire a carriage?"
But they were not to be dissuaded and trudged off briskly, Monsieur Duchanel and Madam Bordier accompanying them to the cross-roads and bidding them God-speed upon their journey.
In spite of the damning facts she had discovered, the evidence of Madam Bordier and Monsieur Duchanel, of the peasant women at Tillires and of Pierre de Folligny, the testimony of Hermia's pale face at the shooting lodge at Alenon and of her confession which she had not thought of doubting, the belief had slowly gained force in her mind that Markham had not lied to her.
"You will wish there were before the week is out." "Will I? You shall see." So far her enthusiasm was genuine enough. But the philosophy begotten of a poulet Duchanel might easily account for such optimism. Indeed to-night Markham himself was disposed to see all things the color of roses.
You shall taste the springs at their fountain head, meet the world with naked hands, learn the luxury of contentment; or else " as he paused she put her hand before his lips. "There is no alternative. I shall not fail you. Good night, Philidor." "Good night, Hermia." Markham sought out Duchanel and sent a telegram to Olga which Hermia had dictated. "Have changed my plans.
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