The behavior of the Chouan proved to Francine that he had not recognized her. Under the hazardous circumstances which she felt her mistress to be in, she scarcely knew whether to regret or to rejoice in this unconsciousness. But the mysterious connection between the landlord’s offer (not uncommon among innkeepers, who can thus kill two birds with one stone), and the Chouan’s threats, piqued her curiosity. She left the dirty window from which she could see the formless heap which she knew to be Marche-a-Terre, and returned to the landlord, who was still standing in the attitude of a man who feels he has made a blunder, and does not know how to get out of it. The Chouan’s gesture had petrified the poor fellow. No one in the West was ignorant of the cruel refinements of torture with which the “Chasseurs du Roi” punished those who were even suspected of indiscretion; the landlord felt their knives already at his throat. The cook looked with a shudder at the iron stove on which they often “warmed” (“chauffaient”) the feet of those they suspected. The fat landlady held a knife in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other, and gazed at her husband with a stupefied air. Even the scullion puzzled himself to know the reason of their speechless terror. Francine’s curiosity was naturally excited by this silent scene, the principal actor of which was visible to all, though departed. The girl was gratified at the evident power of the Chouan, and though by nature too simple and humble for the tricks of a lady’s maid, she was also far too anxious to penetrate the mystery not to profit by her advantages on this occasion. “Mademoiselle accepts your proposal,” she said to the landlord, who jumped as if suddenly awakened by her words. “What proposal?” he asked with genuine surprise. “What proposal?” asked Corentin, entering the kitchen. “What proposal?” asked Mademoiselle de Verneuil, returning to it. “What proposal?” asked a fourth individual on the lower step of the staircase, who now sprang lightly into the kitchen. “Why, the breakfast with your persons of distinction,” replied Francine, impatiently. “Distinction!” said the ringing and ironical voice of the person who had just come down the stairway. “My good fellow, that strikes me as a very poor inn joke; but if it’s the company of this young female citizen that you want to give us, we should be fools to refuse it. In my mother’s absence, I accept,” he added, striking the astonished innkeeper on the shoulder. The charming heedlessness of youth disguised the haughty insolence of the words, which drew the attention of every one present to the new-comer. The landlord at once assumed the countenance of Pilate washing his hands of the blood of that just man; he slid back two steps to reach his wife’s ear, and whispered, “You are witness, if any harm comes of it, that it is not my fault. But, anyhow,” he added, in a voice that was lower still, “go and tell Monsieur Marche-a-Terre what has happened.”