And, to make his disguise more complete, he too enveloped himself in an enormous apron which came to his chin, and passed his little soot-begrimed hands over his red cheeks.
Bellinde passed on without turning. But it was impossible to think of flight. Madame desired to be served instantly.
The ex-housekeeper, formerly a prudish and demure damsel, had undergone a sudden metamorphosis. On becoming the companion of an old swash-buckler, she had adopted the military manners and the imperious and shrewish tone which were the natural expression of her real nature, long held in restraint and glossed over at Briantes. Her person had developed with corresponding luxuriance. Being no longer obliged to indulge secretly in stolen liquors and delicacies, she had abandoned herself greedily to her gluttonous instincts. Being abundantly supplied with money, provisions and spirits by the forethought of Macabre, who always appropriated the lion's share of all booty, she drowned each day, in the fumes of debauchery, the remorse and disgust born of her subjection to a species of monster.
The pleasure of doing nothing but ride about the country and issue orders was also some compensation to her. The vicissitudes and excesses of her new life as an adventuress had speedily altered her features and almost doubled her size. Her face, naturally high-colored, had already taken on the blotched, purplish appearance of dissipation and over-indulgence. Proud of her luxuriant red mane, she allowed it to fall over her shoulders with absurd ostentation, and bedizened herself, without a trace of discernment, with all sorts of objects which Master Macabre had collected, more frequently by treachery than in honorable warfare.
Madame therefore was in haste to eat and drink, after a long journey in the saddle, and was overjoyed to think that she was to taste at last the fine cooking of Master Pignoux, which she had so often heard extolled at Briantes.
It mattered little to her that five-and-twenty stout troopers—they were miserable rascals by the way, we must not forget that—were waiting at the door with empty stomachs. The dissatisfaction which her conduct caused them did not disturb her in the slightest degree; she had no suspicion of it, her idiot of a husband having given her the rank of lieutenant and the command of a portion of his band, with whom she shared her booty when she was in good humor, and who were devoted to her from interested motives.
The fifteen brigands whom she had brought, and who took possession of the kitchen, while the others were relegated to the stables or ordered to mount guard, displayed at first the greatest eagerness in the preparation of her supper; they counted upon her leavings, and while some laid the table, hustling and abusing the inn servants, others spurred on Bois-Doré the chef, his supposed wife and Mario, the improvised turnspit, to satisfy the lieutenantess's appetite as speedily as possible.
For this reason they could not think of exchanging a word or looking toward the door. There was nothing to be done but cook, and cook they did with might and main.
This was one of the crises in the marquis's life, when he rose to the occasion.
He made ragouts worthy of a better fate, seasoned and dressed the dishes, greased the spider and turned the omelet with the graceful ease of a science which at last imposed respect on those cutthroats, despite their impatience.