CHAPTER XVIII
COUNT GASTON DE FOIX
The name of the inn at Ozauy must have been given in bitter irony, for house and host were alike unprepossessing. Custom seemed the last thing desired.
"Full," said he, opening the door an inch or two in reply to my third knock, though the blankness of the dark upper windows gave him the lie. "Go elsewhere, my fine fellow, and make less noise." And would have shut-to the door again, had I not thrust the end of my riding-whip through the crack.
"Tell me," I whispered, as he struggled to push it back, "is the good-man of Tours in the neighbourhood?"
On the instant the struggling ceased, and I heard a little whimper behind the door like the cry of a child too frightened of the dark to scream.
"Saints have mercy on a fool!" he said, flinging the door wide. "Come in, Monseigneur, come in! How was I to guess it was your Excellency at so late an hour? There are half a dozen louts drinking in the kitchen, some of them not too sober—we must live as we may these times. Shall I turn them out?"
"No, but prepare supper while we see to the horses, then make our rooms ready. But the good-man of Tours, what of him?"
"Certainly, your Excellency, in the morning; I shall see to that. To-night he is——"
But I remembered Commines' advice, and cut him short; besides, it was long past our usual hour for the meal, and we were half-starved.