She disappeared. Rouletabille took the eggs, which had been brought to him in a bowl, and the meat which was on a dish, placed all carefully beside him in the chimney, unhooked a frying-pan and a gridiron, and began to beat up our omelette before proceeding to grill our beefsteak. He then ordered two bottles of cider, and seemed to take as little notice of our host as our host did of him. The landlord let us do our own cooking and set our table near one of the windows. Suddenly I heard him mutter: “Ah!—there he is.” His face had changed, expressing fierce hatred. He went and glued himself to one of the windows, watching the road. There was no need for me to draw Rouletabille’s attention; he had already left our omelette and had joined the landlord at the window. I went with him. A man dressed entirely in green velvet, his head covered with a huntsman’s cap of the same colour, was advancing leisurely, lighting a pipe as he walked. He carried a fowling-piece slung at his back. His movements displayed an almost aristocratic ease. He wore eye-glasses and appeared to be about five and forty years of age. His hair as well as his moustache were salt grey. He was remarkably handsome. As he passed near the inn, he hesitated, as if asking himself whether or no he should enter it; gave a glance towards us, took a few whiffs at his pipe, and then resumed his walk at the same nonchalant pace. Rouletabille and I looked at our host. His flashing eyes, his clenched hands, his trembling lips, told us of the tumultuous feelings by which he was being agitated. “He has done well not to come in here to-day!” he hissed. “Who is that man?” asked Rouletabille, returning to his omelette. “The Green Man,” growled the innkeeper. “Don’t you know him? Then all the better for you. He is not an acquaintance to make.—Well, he is Monsieur Stangerson’s forest-keeper.” “You don’t appear to like him very much?” asked the reporter, pouring his omelette into the frying-pan. “Nobody likes him, monsieur. He’s an upstart who must once have had a fortune of his own; and he forgives nobody because, in order to live, he has been compelled to become a servant. A keeper is as much a servant as any other, isn’t he? Upon my word, one would say that _he_ is the master of the Glandier, and that all the land and woods belong to him. He’ll not let a poor creature eat a morsel of bread on the grass—_his_ grass!” “Does he often come here?” “Too often. But I’ve made him understand that his face doesn’t please me, and, for a month past, he hasn’t been here. The Donjon Inn has never existed for him!—he hasn’t had time!—been too much engaged in paying court to the landlady of the Three Lilies at Saint-Michel. A bad fellow!—There isn’t an honest man who can bear him. Why, the concierges of the château would turn their eyes away from a picture of him!” “The concierges of the château are honest people, then?”