“Why!” said Valensolle, “we are not in a barn!”
“Climb up the hay and sit down near that window,” replied Morgan.
Valensolle obeyed and scrambled up the hay like a schoolboy in his holidays; then he sat down, as Morgan had told him, before a window. The next moment Morgan placed between his friend’s legs a napkin containing a paté, bread, a bottle of wine, two glasses, two knives and two forks.
“The deuce!” cried Valensolle, “‘Lucullus sups with Lucullus.’”
Then gazing through the panes at a building with numberless windows, which seemed to be a wing of the one they were in, and before which a sentry was pacing, he exclaimed: “Positively, I can’t eat my supper till I know where we are. What is this building? And why that sentry at the door?”
“Well,” said Morgan, “since you absolutely must know, I will tell you. We are in the church of Brou, which was converted into a fodder storehouse by a decree of the Municipal Council. That adjoining building is now the barracks of the gendarmerie, and that sentry is posted to prevent any one from disturbing our supper or surprising us while we sleep.”
“Brave fellows,” said Valensolle, filling his glass; “their health, Morgan!”
“And ours!” said the young man, laughing; “the devil take me if any one could dream of finding us here.”
Morgan had hardly drained his glass, when, as if the devil had accepted the challenge, the sentinel’s harsh, strident voice cried: “Qui vive!”
“Hey!” exclaimed the two young men, “what does this mean?”