“Why, Denys, what are you doing? ordering supper for only two?”
“Why not?”
“What, can we sup without waiting for forty more? Burgundy forever!”
“Aha! Courage, camarade. Le dia—”
“C'est convenu.”
The salic law seemed not to have penetrated to French inns. In this one at least wimple and kirtle reigned supreme; doublets and hose were few in number, and feeble in act. The landlord himself wandered objectless, eternally taking off his cap to folk for want of thought; and the women, as they passed him in turn, thrust him quietly aside without looking at him, as we remove a live twig in bustling through a wood.
A maid brought in supper, and the mistress followed her, empty handed.
“Fall to, my masters,” said she cheerily; “y'have but one enemy here; and he lies under your knife.” (I shrewdly suspect this of formula.)
They fell to. The mistress drew her chair a little toward the table; and provided company as well as meat; gossiped genially with them like old acquaintances: but this form gone through, the busy dame was soon off and sent in her daughter, a beautiful young woman of about twenty, who took the vacant seat. She was not quite so broad and genial as the elder, but gentle and cheerful, and showed a womanly tenderness for Gerard on learning the distance the poor boy had come, and had to go. She stayed nearly half-an-hour, and when she left them Gerard said, “This an inn? Why, it is like home.”
“Qui fit Francois il fit courtois,” said Denys, bursting with gratified pride.