"All regard in the world, citizen St. Just," protested Chauvelin
jovially. "Methought that those pleasant reminiscences would
cheer her. Ah! here comes the soup," he added, as a man in blue
blouse and breeches, with sabots on his feet, slouched into the
room, carrying a tureen which he incontinently placed upon the
table. "I feel sure that in England Lady Blakeney misses our
excellent croutes-au-pot, the glory of our bourgeois cookery--Lady
Blakeney, a little soup?"
"I thank you, sir," she murmured.
"Do try and eat something, little mother," Armand whispered in her
ear; "try and keep up your strength for his sake, if not for
mine."
She turned a wan, pale face to him, and tried to smile.
"I'll try, dear," she said.
"You have taken bread and meat to the citizens in the coach?"
Chauvelin called out to the retreating figure of mine host.
"H'm!" grunted the latter in assent.
"And see that the citizen soldiers are well fed, or there will be
trouble."
"H'm!" grunted the man again. After which he banged the door to
behind him.
"Citizen Heron is loath to let the prisoner out of his sight,"
explained Chauvelin lightly, "now that we have reached the last,
most important stage of our journey, so he is sharing Sir Percy's
mid-day meal in the interior of the coach."
He ate his soup with a relish, ostentatiously paying many small
attentions to Marguerite all the time. He ordered meat for
her--bread, butter--asked if any dainties could be got. He was
apparently in the best of tempers.
After he had eaten and drunk he rose and bowed ceremoniously to
her.
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