CHAPTER XIII.
MISCHIEF.
While these people were repairing the fatigues of their journey, a door opened very softly at the end of the room. But Schwann heard it. This door had access to the stairs which led to the upper floor. He instantly hastened toward the person, who stood half concealed.
This man was about forty, small, and wearing a brown cloth coat, braided and trimmed with Astrachan. His vest was blue, as was a neckerchief. He wore straps and spurs—a costume, in fact, in the last mode of 1825—and yet, no human being looked less like a dandy. His feet were huge, his hands ugly and bony. His face expressed timidity and hypocrisy. He took off his hat as Schwann approached. The stranger's eyes were half closed, as if the light from the long windows pained them—in reality, he was examining each face at the table.
"You want breakfast, sir, I presume?" asked the innkeeper.
"Yes," said the other, "yes, yes," but he did not seem to have understood the question, although he took a seat at one of the tables.
"Give me some brandy!" he said. "I am expecting some one, and when he comes you will serve our breakfast up-stairs."
"Very good, sir!" And Schwann walked away. "He is the intendant of some great lord, I fancy," he said to himself.
Again the door opened, and two more customers appeared. One looked like a horse jockey, the other, though in citizen's dress, was without doubt an old soldier. His heavy gray moustache imparted a certain harshness to his expression, though his eyes were frank and honest.
"Where shall I serve your breakfast, gentlemen?" asked the innkeeper.