I
Yvonne had settled herself in a corner of the tap-room on a bench and had tried to lose consciousness of her surroundings.
It was not easy! Glances charged with rancour were levelled at her dainty appearance—dainty and refined despite the look of starvation and of weariness on her face and the miserable state of her clothing—and not a few muttered insults waited on those glances.
As soon as she was seated Yvonne noticed that the old man and the coarse, fat woman behind the bar started an animated conversation together, of which she was very obviously the object, for the two heads—the lean and the round—were jerked more than once in her direction. Presently the man—it was George Lemoine, the proprietor of the Rat Mort—came up to where she was sitting: his lank figure was bent so that his lean back formed the best part of an arc, and an expression of mock deference further distorted his ugly face.
He came up quite close to Yvonne and she found it passing difficult not to draw away from him, for the leer on his face was appalling: his eyes, which were set very near to his hooked nose, had a horrible squint, his lips were thick and moist, and his breath reeked of alcohol.
"What will the noble lady deign to drink?" he now asked in an oily, suave voice.
And Yvonne, remembering the guide's admonitions, contrived to smile unconcernedly into the hideous face.
"I would very much like some wine," she said cheerfully, "but I am afraid that I have no money wherewith to pay you for it."
The creature with a gesture of abject humility rubbed his greasy hands together.
"And may I respectfully ask," he queried blandly, "what are the intentions of the noble lady in coming to this humble abode, if she hath no desire to partake of refreshments?"