Sonnay-le-Loir was a beautiful and picturesque town, once strongly defended, both by walls and a deep river which flowed round below them. There was a good deal left of the old ramparts; the gates still stood, the narrow streets of tall old white houses, each with its court and carriage entrance and shady garden behind, went climbing up the hill to the large square where the Cathedral towered on one side, the town-hall and public offices filled up another, the Prefecture a third, and an old hotel, now used as military quarters, the fourth.
Though it was not market-day, the white cobbled square was cheerful enough; a few stalls of fruit and vegetables, sheltered by coloured umbrellas from the strong sunshine, were lodged about the broad steps of the Cathedral; peasants and townspeople were clattering about in their sabots, soldiers were being drilled in front of the hotel. The bells were chiming and clanging; high up into the blue air soared the tall pinnacles of the Cathedral, delicate stone lacework still fresh and young at five hundred years old, spared by the storm which twenty years ago had wrecked so much down below that was beautiful. A crowd of blue-grey pigeons flapped and cooed about the towers or strutted softly on the stones in the square.
Monsieur Urbain put up his horses at an old posting hotel in the street near the gateway, and walked up into the square. Finding that General Ratoneau was at home, he left Monsieur de Sainfoy's letter with his own card, and a message that he would have the honour of calling to see the General, later in the afternoon. He then went away to do his commissions. At the appointed time he returned to the hotel, and was at once shown upstairs to a large room at the back, looking on a broad, paved court surrounded by barracks.
Neither the room nor its inmate was attractive, and Urbain's humorous face screwed itself into a grimace of disgust as he walked in; but he did not, for that, renounce the errand with which Madame de Sainfoy had entrusted him. The floor was dusty and strewn with papers, the walls were stained, the furniture, handsome in itself, had been much ill-used, and two or three chairs now lay flung where it was tolerably evident that the General had kicked them. The western sun poured hotly in; the atmosphere was of wine, tobacco, and boots; dirty packs of cards were scattered on the table among bottles and glasses, pipes and cigars. General Ratoneau lay stretched on a large sofa in undress uniform, with a red face and a cigar in his mouth. Hervé de Sainfoy's letter, torn across, lay on the floor beside him.
He got up and received his visitor with formal civility, though his looks said plainly, "What the devil do you want here?"
Urbain was cool and self-possessed. He acted the rôle of an ordinary visitor, talking of the country and the news from Spain. The General, though extremely grumpy, was still capable of ordinary conversation, and his remarks, especially on the Spanish campaign, were those of an intelligent soldier who knew his subject.
"If the Emperor would send me to Spain," he growled, "I would teach those miserable Spaniards a lesson. As to the English, it is the desire of my life to fight them. They are bull-dogs, they say—sapristi, I am something of a bull-dog myself—when I lay hold, I don't often let go. You don't know me yet, monsieur, but you will find that that is my way. I am not easily thwarted, monsieur."
"A fine quality, Monsieur le Général!" said Urbain, calmly. "It is true, I hardly know you. I had heard of you from my brother, Joseph de la Marinière—"
"Your Chouan brother, ha, ha!"
"My Royalist brother, suppose we say. Every one has a right to his own private opinions, Monsieur le Général."