.

She heard Brogard's shuffling footsteps, as he came out of the inner
room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the strangers,
however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within range of
Marguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering contempt
than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered, "SACRRREE
SOUTANE!"

Marguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating; her eyes, large
and dilated, had fastened on one of the newcomers, who, at this point,
had taken a quick step forward towards Brogard. He was dressed in the
soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual to the French
CURE, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw open his soutane
for a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of officialism, which
sight immediately had the effect of transforming Brogard's attitude of
contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.

It was the sight of this French CURE, which seemed to freeze the very
blood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was
shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony
hands, the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man! It was Chauvelin!

The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical blow; the
awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made her very
senses reel, and she needed almost superhuman effort, not to fall
senseless beneath it all.

"A plate of soup and a bottle of wine," said Chauvelin imperiously to
Brogard, "then clear out of here--understand? I want to be alone."

Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed. Chauvelin
sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall Englishman,
and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him, dishing up the
soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered with Chauvelin
and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close by the door.

At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogard had hurried back to the inner
room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had accompanied him.

In him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, Chauvelin's secretary and
confidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris, in days gone
by. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened attentively at
the Brogards' door. "Not listening?" asked Chauvelin, curtly.

"No, citoyen."

For a moment Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order Desgas to
search the place; what would happen if she were to b