“My humble apologies to you, Lady Blakeney,” he said in his usual suave manner, “but our worthy host informs me that this is the only room in which he can serve a meal. Therefore I am forced to intrude my presence upon you.”
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?”
“My sister is giddy and over-tired,” interposed Armand firmly. “I pray you, citizen, to have some regard for her.”
“All regard in the world, citizen St. Just,” protested Chauvelin jovially. “Methought that those pleasant reminiscences would cheer her. Ah! here comes the soup,” he added, as a man in blue blouse and breeches, with sabots on his feet, slouched into the room, carrying a tureen which he incontinently placed upon the table. “I feel sure that in England Lady Blakeney misses our excellent croutes-au-pot, the glory of our bourgeois cookery—Lady Blakeney, a little soup?”
“I thank you, sir,” she murmured.
“Do try and eat something, little mother,” Armand whispered in her ear; “try and keep up your strength for his sake, if not for mine.”
She turned a wan, pale face to him, and tried to smile.
“I’ll try, dear,” she said.
“You have taken bread and meat to the citizens in the coach?” Chauvelin called out to the retreating figure of mine host.