It was quite true that Sancho had promised to send a messenger to Etalié, which he had designated as the last halting-place of the _reitres_. But that messenger, who was a gypsy like the rest, and who hoped that the château of Briantes might be taken and pillaged without the aid of the Germans, had no idea of doing the errand, but went in search of plunder in the deserted village, pending the time fixed for the assault upon the manor by his companions. The hostess, in obedience to Macabre's polite summons, came upstairs and faced him bravely. "What is the use of big words, Captain Macabre?" said she, putting her arms akimbo. "We know each other of old, and I know very well that you will pay your reckoning and that of your devils of _lansquenets_[8] with oaths and destruction of property. I don't receive you for my own pleasure, and I know very well that it is more likely to be for my ruin. But I am a reasonable woman and no more foolish than another. So I face ill fortune with a stout heart and serve you to the best of my ability, in order to escape bad treatment and be rid of your faces the sooner. If you are at all reasonable yourself, captain, you will say to yourself that you had better not injure me to no purpose, but let me alone, and remember that I know how to fry and roast as well as another." "In God's name, who are you, old chatterbox?" said the captain, trying to turn his stiff neck in its iron gorget, in order to look at Madame Pignoux. "My maiden name was Marie Mouton, and I was your cantinière during the siege of Sancerre; and one day I fricasseed a stale crust for you and you smacked your lips over it." "That may be; I remember the crust, which was good, but not you, who are ugly. But if you have served the good cause, I forgive your chatter." "And what do you call the good cause now? For you and your like have changed so many times!" "Hold your tongue, my dear Bonbec. I don't talk religion with people of your sort." "Understand, too," interposed Saccage with a sneer, "that the good cause is always the one we serve!" "Is this the time for jabbering," continued Macabre, "when my Proserpine approaches and I order you to make haste?" "I cannot work any faster," replied La Pignoux; "why did you call me upstairs?" "Because I propose that your husband, who is supposed to be a decent sort of cook, shall get up, dead or alive, and put his hand to the dough." "That is impossible; my man is all twisted up with pain, and hasn't cooked for a long time." "You lie, my dear; your man is a tool of old--Enough! I know about you; my wife has told me----" "Old who? what do you mean?" "Methinks you question me, strumpet!" said the captain, with a burlesque dignity which he assumed in perfect good faith. "Why not?" retorted the hostess. "And your wife, as you call her,--who is she, to have kept you so well informed?"