"Ha!" chuckled the other, "you have heard that. Well, why not? The choir is lazy, and—since it costs me nothing—may as well sing at my table. Now, since I cannot persuade you to eat more," St. Georges having pushed his plate away from him with an action of disgust, "let us have a little talk.—Pierre, go away; we wish to be alone. Though—stay—first of all bring a bottle of the old clos from the buffet—the old clos, you understand, the '79 bottling."
The cavalryman wondered if the "old clos" was likely to be any better than the vinaigrous stuff he had just been treated to, and sat waiting its arrival with curiosity, if not impatience. Meanwhile, he regarded his host from under his eyelids as well as he could through the mist made by the still steaming napkins, and also by the wet, hissing logs which spluttered and reeked in the grate close by which the table had been drawn up. The old man, he saw, was perfectly cognizant that he was being observed; occasionally from under his eyelids he would shoot a glance in his turn at the great form of the [2]chevau-léger near him, and would then smile in what he evidently intended to be an engaging manner; while at other times he would swiftly remove his eyes and gaze meditatively into the green wood that smouldered on the andirons.
[2] Cheval-léger is a modern rendering of the old term.
Then Pierre came back with a bottle that appeared, outwardly at least, to give promise of containing good liquor within it, since it was covered with dust and cobwebs, and, uncorking it and placing two long, thin, tapering glasses by its side, withdrew—yet not before Phélypeaux, with that remarkable persistency in mentioning his guest's name which the latter had previously remarked, had called out:
"Fill Monsieur St. Georges's glass, Pierre. Fill it, I say. Fill the glass of Monsieur St. Georges.—Monsieur St. Georges," raising his own, "I drink to you. To your good health and prosperous ride to Paris. And afterward, Monsieur St. Georges—afterward."
CHAPTER III.
IT IS THE MAN.
The wine was good! Worthy of whatever clos it had ripened on! A glass of it went far to repay St. Georges for any discomfort he had suffered during the wretched meal just concluded, and made amends for all that had passed hitherto. As for the Bishop of Lodève, he drank two glasses rapidly in succession, smacked his lips, and peered at the ruby liquid held between the guttering candle and his eye in the most approved fashion, and seemed to be making or receiving amends for the miserable meal he had also partaken of, though so sparingly that the soldier thought he must either have made a better one recently or be about to make one later on.
Then, after he had put three of the logs together—which seemed at last as though about to burn with some effect—by the summary method of kicking them close to each other with his foot, he said quietly, though quite unexpectedly on the part of the other: