An hour or so later, after having vainly ransacked the town for the thing he needed, he returned wet and annoyed to the Veau qui Tote. In a corner of the spacious common-room—a corner by the door leading to the interior of the inn—he saw the six troopers at table, waxing a trifle noisy over cards. Their sergeant sat a little apart, in conversation with the landlord's wife, eyes upturned adoringly, oblivious of the increasing scowl that gathered about her watchful husband's brow.
At another table sat four gentlemen—seemingly travellers, by their air and garb—in a conversation that was hushed at Garnache's entrance. But he paid no heed to them as he stalked with ringing step across the rushstrewn floor, nor observed how covertly and watchfully their glances followed him as returning, in passing the sergeant's prompt salute he vanished through the doorway leading to the stairs.
He reappeared again a moment later, to call the host, and give him orders for the preparing of his own and Rabecque's supper.
On the landing above he found Rabecque awaiting him.
"Is all well?" he asked, and received from his lackey a reassuring answer.
Mademoiselle welcomed him gladly. His long absence, it appeared, had been giving her concern. He told her on what errand he had been, and alarm overspread her face upon hearing its result.
"But, monsieur," she cried, "you are not proposing that I should remain a night in Grenoble."
"What alternative have we?" he asked, and his brows met, impatient at what he accounted no more than feminine whimsey.
"It is not safe," she exclaimed, her fears increasing. "You do not know how powerful are the Condillacs."
He strode to the fire, and the logs hissed under the pressure of his wet boot. He set his back to the blaze, and smiled down upon her.
"Nor do you know how powerful are we," he answered easily. "I have below six troopers and a sergeant of the Seneschal's regiment; with myself and Rabecque we are nine men in all. That should be a sufficient guard, mademoiselle. Nor do I think that with all their power the Condillacs will venture here to claim you at the sword point."
"And yet," she answered, for all that she was plainly reassured, at least in part, "I would rather you had got me a horse, that we might have ridden to Saint Marcellin, where no doubt a carriage might be obtained."
"I did not see the need to put you to so much discomfort," he returned. "It is raining heavily."
"Oh, what of that?" she flung back impatiently.
"Besides," he added, "it seems there are no horses at the post-house. A benighted place this Dauphiny of yours, mademoiselle."
But she never heeded the gibe at her native province. "No horses?" she echoed, and her hazel eyes looked up sharply, the alarm returning to her face. She rose, and approached him. "Surely that is impossible."
"I assure you that it is as I say—neither at the post-house nor at any of the inns I visited could I find me a spare horse."
"Monsieur," she cried, "I see the hand of Condillac in this."
"As how?" he inquired, and his tone again was quickened by impatience.
"They have anticipated you. They seek to keep you here—to keep us in Grenoble."
"But to what end?" he asked, his impatience growing. "The Auberge de France has promised me a carriage in the morning. What shall it avail them at Condillac to keep us here to-night?"
"They may have some project. Oh, monsieur! I am full of fears."
"Dismiss them," he answered lightly; and to reassure her he added, smiling: "Rest assured we shall keep good watch over you, Rabecque and I and the troopers. A guard shall remain in the passage throughout the night. Rabecque and I will take turn about at sentry-go. Will that give you peace?"
"You are very good," she said, her voice quivering with feeling and real gratitude, and as he was departing she called after him. "You will be careful of yourself," she said.
He paused under the lintel, and turned, surprised. "It is a habit of mine," said he, with a glint of humour in his eye.
But there was no answering smile from her. Her face was all anxiety.
"Beware of pitfalls," she bade him. "Go warily; they are cruelly cunning, those folk of Condillac. And if evil should befall you..."
"There would still remain Rabecque and the troopers," he concluded.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I implore you to be careful," she insisted.
"You may depend upon me," he said, and closed the door.
Outside he called Rabecque, and together they went below. But mindful of her fears, he dispatched one of the troopers to stand sentry outside her door whilst he and his lackey supped. That done, he called the host, and set himself at table, Rabecque at his elbow in attendance to hand him the dishes and pour his wine.
Across the low-ceilinged room the four travellers still sat in talk, and as Garnache seated himself, one of them shouted for the host and asked in an impatient tone to know if his supper was soon to come.
"In a moment, sir," answered the landlord respectfully, and he turned again to the Parisian. He went out to bring the latter's meal, and whilst he was gone Rabecque heard from his master the reason of their remaining that night in Grenoble. The inference drawn by the astute lackey—and freely expressed by him—from the lack of horses or carriages in Grenoble that night, coincided oddly with Valerie's. He too gave it as his opinion that his master had been forestalled by the Dowager's people, and without presuming to advise Garnache to go warily—a piece of advice that Garnache would have resented, to the extent perhaps of boxing the fellow's ears—he determined, there and then, to keep a close watch upon his master, and under no circumstances, if possible, permit him to leave the Sucking Calf that night.
The host returned, bearing a platter on which there steamed a ragout that gave out an appetizing odour; his wife followed with other dishes and a bottle of Armagnac under her arm. Rabecque busied himself at once, and his hungry master disposed himself to satisfy the healthiest appetite in France, when suddenly a shadow fell across the table. A man had come to stand beside it, his body screening the light of one of the lamps that hung from a rafter of the ceiling.
"At last!" he exclaimed, and his voice was harsh with ill-humour.
Garnache looked up, pausing in the very act of helping himself to that ragout. Rabecque looked up from behind his master, and his lips tightened. The host looked up from the act of drawing the cork of the flagon he had taken from his wife, and his eyes grew big as in his mind he prepared a judicious blend of apology and remonstrance wherewith to soothe this very impatient gentleman. But before he could speak, Garnache's voice cut sharply into the silence. An interruption at such a moment vexed him sorely.
"Monsieur says?" quoth he.
"To you, sir—nothing," answered the fellow impudently, and looked him straight between the eyes.
With a flush mounting to his cheeks, and his brows drawn together in perplexity, Garnache surveyed him. He was that same traveller who had lately clamoured to know when he might sup, a man of rather more than middle height, lithe and active of frame, yet with a breadth of shoulder and depth of chest that argued strength and endurance as well. He had fair, wavy hair, which he wore rather longer than was the mode, brown eyes, and a face which, without being handsome, was yet more than ordinarily engaging by virtue of its strength and frank ingenuousness. His dress was his worst feature. It was flamboyant and showy; cheap, and tawdrily pretentious. Yet he bore himself with the easy dignity of a man who counts more inferiors than superiors.
Despite the arrogant manner of his address, Garnache felt prepossessed in the newcomer's favour. But before he could answer him, the host was speaking.
"Monsieur mistakes..." he began.
"Mistakes?" thundered the other in an accent slightly foreign. "It is you who mistake if you propose to tell me that this is not my supper. Am I to wait all night, while every jackanapes who follows me into your pigsty is to be served before me?"