"A glove!" exclaimed Nanon, trying to remember if she had not left such a pledge in the possession of her knight; "a glove like this?"
As she spoke, she handed the inn-keeper one of her own gloves.
"No," said Biscarros, "a man's glove."
"A man's glove? Monsieur de Canolles staring at a man's glove, and passionately smelling it? You are mad!"
"No; for it belonged to the little gentleman, the pretty little blond cavalier, who neither ate nor drank, and was afraid of the dark,—a tiny glove, in which madame could hardly put her hand, although madame certainly has a pretty hand—"
Nanon gave a sharp little cry, as if she had been struck by an invisible arrow.
"I trust," said she, with a mighty effort, "that you have all the information you desire, monseigneur; that you know all you wished to know."
With trembling lips, clenched teeth, and gleaming eyes, she pointed with outstretched finger to the door, while Biscarros, noticing these indications of wrath upon the young woman's face, was altogether non-plussed, and stood with mouth and eyes wide open.
"If the young gentleman's absence is such a calamity," he thought, "his return would be a blessed thing. I will flatter this worthy nobleman with a hopeful suggestion, that he may have a hearty appetite."
In pursuance of this determination, Biscarros assumed his most gracious expression, gracefully put his right leg forward, and remarked,—