It is at table that we renew our acquaintance with Gabriel and Jean Peuquoy, just as their worthy host has finished doing the honors of a bountiful supper. Babette was waiting upon the guests; and the children were seated at a respectful distance from their elders.
"Great Heaven, Monseigneur," said the armorer, "how little you eat, if you will allow me to say so! You are all anxiety, and Jean is lost in thought; but if the repast is but modest, the heart that offers it is in the right place. At least, have a few of these grapes, for they are very scarce in our country. I learned from my grand-father, who had it from his, that in old days, when the French were masters here, the vineyards of Calais yielded bountifully, and the grapes were golden; but alas! since the town has been English, the grape deceives itself by fancying that it is in England, where it isn't accustomed to grow ripe."
Gabriel could but smile at the strange reasoning in which brave Pierre's patriotism found vent.
"Come," said he, raising his glass, "I drink to the ripening of the grapes of Calais!"
We may readily believe that the Peuquoys responded warmly to such a toast! Supper at an end, Pierre offered thanks while his guests listened, standing bareheaded. Then the children were sent to bed.
"Now you may retire, Babette," said the armorer to his sister. "See that the apprentices don't make too much noise; and before you go to your room, go with Gertrude and inquire if Monsieur le Vicomte's squire is in need of aught."
Pretty Babette blushed, and left the room with a courtesy.
"Now, my dear friend and cousin," said Pierre to Jean, "here we are alone, we three; and if you have any private communication to make to me, I am ready to hear it."
Gabriel looked at Jean in amazement, but he replied with his most serious expression,—
"I did tell you, Pierre, that I had some matters of importance to talk over with you."