Louis, supplying his name, kissed the little cold hand, and was duly made acquainted with MM. Chanzeau and Lagrange, who had abandoned the laying of the table to Jacques. But before he was introduced to the elder man, the latter, wrinkling up a pair of short-sighted eyes, asked abruptly: “Are you the Saint-Ermay who was in the bodyguard, compagnie Villeroy?”
“Yes,” said Louis, puzzled. “Were you there? Pardon me if I have had the pleasure of meeting you and the bad manners to forget it——”
The other gave a short laugh. “On my soul, Vicomte, you must have a short memory. Or else it is over-burdened with such meetings. Have you really forgotten a certain morning behind the Luxembourg two and a half years ago? It is true that I have more reason to remember it than you!”
“Des Essars!” exclaimed Louis. “How could I not know you again!—But it was such a horribly dark morning,” he added, in such a tone that they all laughed in spite of themselves.
“And I have altered, eh?” said Des Essars, with a grim little smile. “Well, I have been in here nearly ever since. As we settled our little difference finally on that occasion I must not say that I am glad to see you.” He held out his hand with a friendly gesture, and Louis took it as frankly.
“Well, gentlemen,” observed M. de Maisonfleur, taking snuff in high good-humour, “this is all very satisfactory and as it should be. And here is our good Jacques with some culinary triumph. M. de Saint-Ermay, I will ask you to give your arm to my daughter. . . .”
When Louis, back in his own cell, reviewed his evening, he found it a dream-like memory, at once ludicrous and pathetic. It was not easy to do the honours of a badly-made stew, eaten in wooden platters with pewter spoons on a deal table without a cloth, but M. de Maisonfleur had accomplished it. It was not easy—and Louis had guessed it—for a girl who was tired and heart-sick to behave as though her shabby dress were new and fashionable, and she the chatelaine entertaining her father's guests, but Mademoiselle de Maisonfleur had done it. He had sat by her side and helped her. Opposite to him, too, was the man whom he had last seen senseless on the frosty grass in the Luxembourg gardens—all for the sake of a hasty word. Now it was as though they had never crossed swords.
It was indeed as like a dream as the rest of the solitary day had been, as this very straw-covered pallet on which he sat was like a dream.
“Devilish more like a nightmare!” exclaimed the dreamer aloud, surveying the couch with disfavour. “Well, perhaps if I really go to sleep I shall wake up;” and slowly divesting himself of his coat and waistcoat he lay down in the straw.