"Courage, courage, monsieur! We may lose you yet to our desolation. And Madame la Marquise may welcome you still--without doubt she lives for you--and _la petite mademoiselle_, now surely a great lady, as a De Chevagny must be. Heart of grace, monsieur, heart of grace, and see the fine dinner I have brought you! _Regardez moi ça_. Here is a fish--_ombre chevalier_, of the best--and two pigeons, some beef with the gravy in it, and a salad, some rennets and biscuits, and, for the wine, two little bottles. Because, you see, monsieur," turning to Bertie with a husky whisper, "here in the _calottes_ the visitors drink not with such abundance as in the chapel rooms. 'Tis not my fault." "Why," exclaimed the marquis, in a stern voice very different from that in which he had just spoken, and regarding the table fiercely, "have you placed three covers? Who are the three?" "_Mon Dieu!_ you are three, monsieur. _Le fou_--the English lord--must eat too, is it not so? The portion is for three, and a good one at that." "He is a villain!" exclaimed the old marquis, his eyes flashing. "He shall not sit at the table. I thought his drivellings of murder were not true, until this gentleman came, and that he was a harmless idiot. Now, I know he is a villain. And--and--I am a gentleman--a peer of France--he shall not sit at meat with me." "Faith! then he must eat on his bed. Here, fool," Bluet exclaimed, going up to Fordingbridge, who seemed more dazed than ever, though he had been regarding the food eagerly; "the marquis will not have you at the table; eat there!" and he flung a platter down before him, on which there was some of the beef and salad, and an apple, or rennet, all mixed together. The miserable wretch sprang at the portion like a wild beast that was famished, and devoured it in a few moments, and then threw himself on the bed again and either slept or pretended to do so, while the marquis and Bertie, taking no notice of him, discussed their meal, which, in spite of Bluet's eulogies, was not a very solid one. And during its progress they took the opportunity of telling each other a good deal of their various affairs and history, though, since the poor marquis had been immured so many years, his did not take long in the recital. Yet it was pitiful to hear. "I had been married but a year," he said. "I was young--but twenty-five--well to do; nay, rich and happy. Then I wrote a little _ballade_, a harmless one, upon La Vallière; it was sung about the streets, it reached Marly and Versailles, and--and--that was all! A week later I was here--and it is forty-three years ago. O Jeanne, my wife! O Brigide, my little child, my babe! where are you both now? Forty-three years! Forty-three years! Forty-three years! If they should see me they would not know me. Jeanne could not recognize in me the young husband who was torn from her side; my little girl never knew me, will never know me now."