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Updated: August 13, 2024
"He went to get a horse and cart," said Brogard, laconically, as with a surly gesture, he shook off from his arm that pretty hand which princes had been proud to kiss. "At what time did he go?" But Brogard had evidently had enough of these questionings.
Then he said with a light laugh: "Even the vinegar which that ruffian Brogard served us at Calais was preferable to this, do you not imagine so, my good Monsieur Chambertin?" Chauvelin made no reply. Like a feline creature on the prowl, he was watching the prey that had so nearly succumbed to his talons. Blakeney's face now was positively ghastly.
Though he spoke with outward politeness, his tone had become more peremptory, less bland, and he did not await Marguerite's reply before he sat down opposite to her and continued to talk airily. "An ill-conditioned fellow, our host," he said "quite reminds me of our friend Brogard at the Chat Gris in Calais. You remember him, Lady Blakeney?"
But she had not time to conjecture, for presently there was a peremptory call at the door, and the next moment it was violently open from the outside, whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted, "Hey! Citoyen Brogard! Hola!" Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through a hole in one of the curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below.
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?" Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed away at his pipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered, "Heu! sometimes!"
Brogard was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself comfortable there or not as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was singularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining unobserved. He had paid Brogard well; the surly old innkeeper would have no object in betraying her.
Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed. Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him, dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered with Chauvelin and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close by the door.
Whilst he spoke he had led Deroulede and Juliette into a dark and narrow room on the ground floor of the hostelry, and presently he called loudly for Brogard, the host of this uninviting abode. "Brogard!" shouted Sir Percy. "Where is that ass Brogard?
Have no fear, I will watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he needs it most." Brogard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up to her safe retreat. "I dare not kiss your hand, madam," said Sir Andrew, as she began to mount the steps, "since I am your lacquey, but I pray you be of good cheer.
"Here!" she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly to have been transformed in her eyes into some heaven-born messenger of bliss. "Here! did you say the English gentleman was coming back here?" The heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the floor, to express his contempt for all and sundry ARISTOS, who chose to haunt the "Chat Gris."
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