‘Not again, Monsieur!’ he cried, in his vile patois. ‘My head is sore still raise your hand and I will rip you up as I would a pig!’
‘Sit down, fool,’ I said. ‘I am not going to harm you. Where is your wife?’
‘About her business.’
‘Which should be getting my supper,’ I retorted.
He rose sullenly, and, fetching a platter, poured the mess of broth and vegetables into it. Then he went to a cupboard and brought out a loaf of black bread and a measure of wine, and set them also on the table.
‘You see it,’ he said laconically.
‘And a poor welcome!’ I replied.
He flamed into sudden passion at that. Leaning with both his hands on the table he thrust his rugged face and blood-shot eyes close to mine. His moustachios bristled, his beard trembled.
‘Hark ye, sirrah!’ he muttered, with sullen emphasis, ‘be content! I have my suspicions. And if it were not for my lady’s orders I would put a knife into you, fair or foul, this very night. You would lie snug outside, instead of inside, and I do not think anyone would be the worse. But as it is, be content. Keep a still tongue; and when you turn your back on Cocheforet to-morrow keep it turned.’
‘Tut! tut!’ I said—but I confess that I was a little out of countenance. ‘Threatened men live long, you rascal!’