"Illustrious and gallant captain," he said, bowing to the ground, "I beg you to excuse my poor fool of a wife, who did not know what a great warrior and scholar we had under our roof. It is quite true that I am ill with the gout, but your affable and martial air would bring the dead to life, and I remember too well my service under your banner not to be determined, though I must leave my life in my fires, to serve you to the extent of such small talents as heaven has given me."
"Good! good!" said Saccage to the captain, "there is nothing like threatening! They are all claiming to have served under you."
"That's all right," rejoined Macabre, "provided he serves me well now. And after all, monsieur le lieutenant, it's not impossible that the old fellow may have known me long ago, during the war in the province. I had enough share in it for everybody to remember me. Scullion! you may tell me of your campaigns at dessert, for I see from your manner and your gait that the gout hasn't spoiled the carriage of a soldier. You have a curious odor about you," he added, referring to the perfumes with which the marquis, despite his disguise, was thoroughly impregnated; "it smells like confectionery! No matter! I will bet that you have been a lansquenet in your day, eh?"
"I was one for a whole year," replied Bois-Doré, who knew by heart the whole of Master Pignoux's checkered existence and Macabre's villainous youth. "Why, I saw you worry the Huguenots of Bourges during the massacre in the prisons, in company with that terrible vine-dresser who was called Le Grand Vinaigrier."
"Oho!" cried the Italian, glancing at his captain with a mocking air, "didn't I tell you that you were a great Papist, my captain?"
"Everything in its season!" retorted Macabre, with philosophical tranquillity; "my father, who was the captain of the great tower of Bourges with the late Monsieur de Pisseloup, protected the poor heretics in the province as well as he could. For my part, I fired crooked when I couldn't do anything better. But I got back into the straight road, and I am more sincere than you, Monsieur l'Italien, with your relics hidden under your German breastplate."
The Italian made a sharp retort, and Macabre, angry with him for raising his voice in presence of his pages and his men-at-arms, although they understood very little French, bade him be silent, and asked the marquis what he could give him to eat.
Bois-Doré, who had referred to the incident of the Catholic massacres only to see in what waters young Macabre was sailing since he had grown old, felt more at ease.
This leader of partizans could not be acting under the patronage of the Prince de Condé. The marquis's knowledge was sufficiently extensive to enable him to talk of culinary matters like a man who knows his ground, and as, during his stay of two hours at the inn, he had discussed this momentous question with Madame Pignoux, to pass the time away, he was quite familiar with the contents of the pantry and the resources of the cellar.
"We shall have the honor to offer you," he said, "a quarter of wild-boar seasoned with spices, which will commend itself to you; a fine mess of Issoudun crabs cooked in beer——"