“How came you into this masquerade?” he inquired.
“Ma foi,” answered the man, shrugging his shoulders, “we were in rags. The commissariat was demoralised, and supplies were not forthcoming. We had to take what we could find, or else go naked.”
“And where did you find these things?”
“Diable! Will your questions never come to an end, Citizen? Would you not be better advised in putting them to the Captain himself?”
“Why, so I will. Where is he?”
In the distance a cloud of dust might be perceived above the long, white road. The soldier espied it as La Boulaye put his question.
“I am much at fault if he does not come yonder.” And he pointed to the dust-cloud.
“I think,” said La Boulaye, turning to his men, “that we will drink a cup of wine at the 'Eagle Inn.'”
Mean though the place was, it was equipped with a stable-yard, to which admittance was gained by a porte-cochere on the right. Wheeling his horse, La Boulaye, without another word to the soldier he had been questioning, rode through it, followed by his escort.
The hostess, who came forward to receive them, was a tall, bony woman of very swarthy complexion, with beady eyes and teeth prominent as a rat's. But if ill-favoured, she seemed, at least, well-intentioned, in addition to which the tricolour scarf of office round La Boulaye's waist was a thing that commanded respect and servility, however much it might be the insignia of a Government of liberty, equality, and fraternity.