Still puzzled, he passed out of the room to be questioned sharply by the woman of the house touching his motives for passing himself off as her husband and inviting the new-comers to enter.
“I promise you their stay will be a very brief one,” he answered. “I have suspicions to verify the ends to serve, as you shall see. Will you do me the favour to go out by the back and call my men? Tell the corporal to make his way to the front of the house, and to hold himself in readiness to enter the moment I call him.”
“What are you about to do?” she asked and the face, as he saw it by the light of the candle she held, wore an expression of sullen disapproval.
He reassured her that there would be no bloodshed, and suggested that the men were dangerous characters whom it might be ill for her to entertain. And so at last he won his way, and she went to do his errand, whilst he reentered the kitchen.
He found Des Cadoux by the fire, intent upon drying as much of himself as possible. The younger man had seized upon the bottle of brandy that had been left on the table, and was in the act of filling himself a second glass. Nothing could be further from the mind of either than a suspicion of the identity of this rustically-clad and grimy-faced fellow.
“Mathilde will be here in a moment,” said Caron deferentially. “She is seeking something for you.”
Had he told them precisely what she was seeking they had been, possibly, less at ease.
“Let her hasten,” cried the courier, “for I am famished.”
“Have patience, Anatole,” murmured the ever-gentle Cadoux. “The good woman did not expect us.”
Anatole! The name buzzed through Caron's brain. To whom did it belong? He knew of someone who bore it. Yet question himself though he might, he could at the moment find no answer. And then the courier created a diversion by addressing him.