"Yes, to be sure," said the servant; "here are master's clothes; put them on, monsieur le mar——"
"No marquises!" said Mario; "leave us, my good girl; and you, father, shall be Master Pignoux."
"But why show myself?" observed the marquis, as he mechanically unbuttoned his vest; "I shall not be able to act a part as you do, my child."
"Yes, you will, yes, you will, my father! But, tell me, don't you know a reitre named Macabre? It seems to me I have heard you mention that name."
"Macabre? Yes, to be sure, I know that name and the man too, if it's the same one who——"
"Is it a long time since he saw you?"
"The devil! yes! something like twenty or thirty years—perhaps more!"
"Well, that is all right! Show yourself without fear; play the inn-keeper, and we will find a way to escape."
"That will not be possible, my child," said the marquis, continuing to undress. "We have crafty rascals to deal with. Just fancy that they came up with no more noise than if it had been a troop of mules going at a footpace under the charge of a single man. I had no suspicion; the hostess was asleep in the chimney corner. I was in the living-room, reading Astrée, while waiting until it was time to start."
"Let us hide Astrée! Cooks do not read books bound in silk," said Mario, seizing the volume, which the marquis had instinctively placed beside his hat when he took possession of the inn-keeper's chamber.