He grinned as he spoke, and it was with difficulty I suppressed my
wrath.

'Mademoiselle de Cocheforet told you,' I said, affecting indifference,
'where I was?'

'Ay, Mademoiselle--or Madame,' he replied, grinning afresh.

So she had told him; where she had left me, and how she had tricked me!
She had, made me the village laughing-stock! My rage flashed out afresh
at the thought, and, at the sight of his mocking face, I raised my fist.

But he read the threat in my eyes, and was up in a moment, snarling,
with his hand on his knife.

'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!'

'In Paris!' he answered significantly. 'Not here, Monsieur.'

He straightened himself with that, nodded once, and went back to the
fire; and I shrugged my shoulders and began to eat, affecting to forget
his presence. The logs on the hearth burned sullenly, and gave no light.
The poor oil-lamp, casting weird shadows from wall to wall, served only
to discover the darkness. The room, with its low roof and earthen floor,
and foul clothes flung here and there, reeked of stale meals and garlic
and vile cooking. I thought of the parlour at Cocheforet, and the dainty
table, and the stillness, and the scented pot-herbs; and though I