hen, when the smoke which arose from the damp green
wood had thoroughly permeated the whole of the room, he looked round
at St. Georges and said:

"You were gone some while to the 'Ours.' Did you sup there?"

"Nay," replied the other, glancing at him through the smoke and by aid
of the single candle by which the room was illuminated, for it was now
night. "Nay, monseigneur, I thought to sup with you."

"And so you shall," exclaimed Phelypeaux, with an assumed air of
hilarity--"and so you shall. Only--I cannot entertain you as in
Languedoc. Now, if we were there----"

"Well," said the soldier, "we are not. We are in Burgundy. The land of
good cheer. We must take what Burgundy offers."

"_Helas!_ it offers little. At least in this house. However, I will
see." Saying which he opened a door at the other end of the room, and
calling, "Pierre, Pierre!" loudly, he cried out, after a harsh voice
had answered him from some distant room: "Bring some supper for
Monsieur St. Georges and myself. For Monsieur St. Georges and myself.
You understand! For Monsieur St. Georges and myself."

"Why emphasize 'Monsieur St. Georges' so strongly, monseigneur?" the
other demanded. "The respected servitor can hardly care much whether
he bring supper for you and Monsieur St. Georges or for you and
Monsieur the dev---- I beg your pardon, monseigneur."

The Bishop of Lodeve laughed a kind of grim, uncanny laugh as St.
Georges said this, then he remarked:

"Surely you don't believe in--in--the gentleman you were about to
mention. Let me see, there is a musty proverb that he who sups with
that personage needs a long spoon. Well, I would not sup with him--if
he exists. Our supper will be none too profuse as it is," and again he
laughed.

So, indeed, it seemed, judging by what Pierre brought in later. The
soup, served in a handsome silver tureen, whose antique form and
chasings must have dated back to the days of Henri de Navarre at
latest, was so thin that it was nothing but boiling water with a
greasy flavour, and St. Georges twisted his long mustaches with dismay
as he gazed into the stuff before him. Moreover, the bread with which
he endeavoured to fortify this meagre commencement was half baked, so
that it was of the consistency of dough. Next, the meat which was
brought to table must have been unkilled at the time he rode into
Dijon, so tough and tasteless was it; and the wine was a disgrace to
France, let alone to Burgundy, where ever