“Hey, my friend!” said Sir Andrew at last, “we should like some supper. . . . The citoyenne there,” he added, pointing to the huddled-up bundle of rags by the hearth, “is concocting some delicious soup, I’ll warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for several hours.”
It took Brogard some few moments to consider the question. A free citizen does not respond too readily to the wishes of those who happen to require something of him.
“Sacrrrés aristos!” he murmured, and once more spat upon the ground.
Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner of the room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and slowly, and without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same silence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-pot.
Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror; were it not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently have fled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.
“Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people,” said Sir Andrew, seeing the look of horror on Marguerite’s face. “I would I could offer you a more hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you will find the soup eatable and the wine good; these people wallow in dirt, but live well as a rule.”
“Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew,” she said gently, “be not anxious about me. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper.”
Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had placed a couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of which Sir Andrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.
Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make some pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his rôle of lacquey, stood behind her chair.
“Nay, Madame, I pray you,” he said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quite unable to eat, “I beg of you to try and swallow some food—remember you have need of all your strength.”