“We will see about that, and without any delay.  Maitre Bilot is always ready and glad to tell all he knows whenever he can secure a good listener, and he is sharp enough to find out very quickly pretty much all that’s worth knowing about his guests in the hotel.  Come, we’ll go and drink a bottle of his best Madeira; I will draw him out, and get all the information he can give us about this fair inmate of his house.”

A few minutes later the two young gentlemen entered the Armes de France, and asked for Maitre Bilot.  The worthy landlord came forward at once, and himself conducted them into a cosy, well-lighted room on the ground floor, where a bright fire was burning cheerily; he took the old, dusty bottle, with cobwebs clinging about it, from the waiter’s hands, drew the cork very carefully, and then poured the amber wine, as clear as a topaz, into the delicate Venetian glasses held out for it by the duke and his companion, with a hand as steady as if it bad been of bronze.  In taking upon himself this office Maitre Bilot affected an almost religious solemnity, as though he were a priest of Bacchus, officiating at his altar, and about to celebrate the mysterious rites of the ancient worshippers of that merry god; nothing was wanting but the crown of vine leaves.  He seemed to think that this ceremoniousness was a sort of testimony to the superior quality of the wine from his well-stocked cellar, which needed no recommendation, for it was really very good, worthy of even a royal table, and of wide-spread fame.

Maitre Bilot, having finished his little performance, was about to withdraw, when a significant glance from the duke made him pause respectfully on the threshold.

“Maitre Bilot,” said he, “fetch a glass for yourself from the buffet there, and come and drink a bumper of this capital wine to my health.”

This command, for such it was in reality, was instantly obeyed, and after emptying his glass at a single draught, the well-pleased landlord stood, with one hand resting on the table and his eyes fixed on the duke, waiting to see, what was wanted of him.

“Have you many strangers in your house now?” asked Vallombreuse, “and who and what are they?” Bilot was about to reply, but the young duke interrupted him, and continued, “But what’s the use of beating about the bush with such a wily old miscreant as you are, Maitre Bilot?  Who is the lady that has the room with a window, the third one from the corner, looking into my garden?  Answer to the point, and you shall have a gold piece for every syllable.”

“Under those conditions,” said Bilot, with a broad grin, “one must be very virtuous indeed to make use of the laconic style so highly esteemed by the ancients.  However, as I am devoted to your lordship, I will answer in a single word—­Isabelle.”

“Isabelle! a charming and romantic name.  But do not confine yourself to such Lacedaemonian brevity, Maitre Bilot; be prolix! and relate to me, minutely, everything that you know about the lovely Isabelle.”