A few minutes later the two young gentlemen entered the _Armes de France_, and asked for Maître Bilot. The worthy landlord came forward at once, and himself conducted them into a cosy, well-lighted room on the ground floor, where a bright fire was burning cheerily; he took the old, dusty bottle, with cobwebs clinging about it, from the waiter’s hands, drew the cork very carefully, and then poured the amber wine, as clear as a topaz, into the delicate Venetian glasses held out for it by the duke and his companion, with a hand as steady as if it had been of bronze. In taking upon himself this office Maître Bilot affected an almost religious solemnity, as though he were a priest of Bacchus, officiating at his altar, and about to celebrate the mysterious rites of the ancient worshippers of that merry god; nothing was wanting but the crown of vine leaves. He seemed to think that this ceremoniousness was a sort of testimony to the superior quality of the wine from his well-stocked cellar, which needed no recommendation, for it was really very good, worthy of even a royal table, and of wide-spread fame. Maître Bilot, having finished his little performance, was about to withdraw, when a significant glance from the duke made him pause respectfully on the threshold. “Maître Bilot,” said he, “fetch a glass for yourself from the buffet there, and come and drink a bumper of this capital wine to my health.” This command, for such it was in reality, was instantly obeyed, and after emptying his glass at a single draught, the well-pleased landlord stood, with one hand resting on the table and his eyes fixed on the duke, waiting to see, what was wanted of him. “Have you many strangers in your house now?” asked Vallombreuse, “and who and what are they?” Bilot was about to reply, but the young duke interrupted him, and continued, “But what’s the use of beating about the bush with such a wily old miscreant as you are, Maître Bilot? Who is the lady that has the room with a window, the third one from the corner, looking into my garden? Answer to the point, and you shall have a gold piece for every syllable.” “Under those conditions,” said Bilot, with a broad grin, “one must be very virtuous indeed to make use of the laconic style so highly esteemed by the ancients. However, as I am devoted to your lordship, I will answer in a single word—Isabelle.” “Isabelle! a charming and romantic name. But do not confine yourself to such Lacedaemonian brevity, Maître Bilot; be prolix! and relate to me, minutely, everything that you know about the lovely Isabelle.” “I am proud and happy to obey your lordship’s commands,” the worthy landlord answered, with a low bow; “my cellar, my kitchen, my tongue and myself are all at your lordship’s disposition. Isabelle is an actress, belonging to the celebrated troupe of Seignior Hérode, stopping at present at the _Armes de France_.”