He gave me a quick inquisitive look.
“You have a queer accent for a patriot. Well, well—it is no concern of mine.”
Again he resumed his task, again to pause in it.
“Do you seek a service? I hear it is the case with many.”
“I seek food and a lodging for the night.”
“Eh! but can you pay for them?”
“In reason—certainly, in reason.”
“So, then?—should Georgette bring a generous basketful—bah!” he cried suddenly, stamping irritably on the ground—“I offer you my poor hospitality, monsieur, and” (the leer came into his eyes again)—“should monsieur feel any scruple, a vail left on the mantelpiece for the servants will doubtless satisfy it.”
But he had no servant left to him, it would seem. When, by-and-by, he ushered me, with apish ceremony, into his house, I found the place desolate and forlorn as we had left it.
“I have reduced my following,” he said, “since my niece withdrew herself from my protection. What does a single bachelor want with an army of locusts to devour him?”