sank into another against the wall, with an air of great weariness. David stood, considering how best he might now take his leave and continue upon his way.
“My lord,” said the landlord, bowing to the floor, “h-had I ex-expected this honour, entertainment would have been ready. T-t-there is wine and cold fowl and m-m-maybe———”
“Candles,” said the marquis, spreading the fingers of one plump white hand in a gesture he had.
“Y-yes, my lord.” He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted them, and set them upon the table.
“If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain Burgundy—there is a cask———”
“Candles,” said monsieur, spreading his fingers.
“Assuredly—quickly—I fly, my lord.”
A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall. The great bulk of the marquis overflowed his chair. He was dressed in fine black from head to foot save for the snowy ruffles at his wrists and throat. Even the hilt and scabbard of his sword were black. His expression was one of sneering pride. The ends of an upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes.
The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young, and possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty. He was startled from the contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice of the marquis.
“What is your name and pursuit?”
“David Mignot. I am a poet.”
The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes.
“How do you live?”
