The landlady stood in the door of the inn behind: woman are quicker of wit than men. "Monseigneur means Monsieur Oliver," said she.
The marquis overheard. "Yes," exclaimed he. "Monsieur Oliver—Monsieur Oliver de Monnière."
"Oh, Monsieur Oliver!" cried Pierre. "Oh yes, I know him as well as I know myself. He and his respected mother are now living up there on the hill. You can, monseigneur, see the house with your own eyes. It is that one with the white wall to the side, and with the apple and pear trees showing over the top. The rich Dr. Fouchette used to live there. It is, monseigneur, the finest house in Flourens. Monsieur Oliver indeed! That is good! I have known Monsieur Oliver ever since—"
But the coach was gone; the marquis had called out to the driver, had pulled up the window with a click, and now the coach was gone. Pierre stared after it for a while, and then he put on first his wig and then his hat, and went into the house again.
So Oliver drew back from the window and turned around. "You see, mother," said he, "monseigneur comes, as I asserted he would."
Oliver's mother was in a tremendous flutter. "And to think," said she, "of his coming all the way from the château just because of a little piece of cut-glass!"
Oliver laughed. "That little piece of cut-glass was worth having," said he. "You do not yet know the value of little pieces of cut-glass like that, my mother."
Madame Munier did not listen to what Oliver was saying. "And to think," said she, "of Monseigneur the Marquis visiting me, the Widow Munier!"
"You forget, mother," said Oliver. "You are no longer Widow Munier, you are Madame de Monnière."