But Corentin, from his earliest youth, had known the art of getting out of an innkeeper things more essential to himself than doubtful dishes and apocryphal wines. So he gave himself out as a man easy to please, and willing to leave himself in the hands of the best cook in Mansle, as he told the fat man.
“There is no difficulty about being the best—I am the only one,” said the host.
“Serve us in the side room,” said Corentin, winking at Derville. “And do not be afraid of setting the chimney on fire; we want to thaw out the frost in our fingers.”
“It was not warm in the coach,” said Derville.
“Is it far to Marsac?” asked Corentin of the innkeeper’s wife, who came down from the upper regions on hearing that the diligence had dropped two travelers to sleep there.
“Are you going to Marsac, monsieur?” replied the woman.
“I don’t know,” he said sharply. “Is it far from hence to Marsac?” he repeated, after giving the woman time to notice his red ribbon.
“In a chaise, a matter of half an hour,” said the innkeeper’s wife.
“Do you think that Monsieur and Madame Sechard are likely to be there in winter?”
“To be sure; they live there all the year round.”