Pierre put in his pocket some of the money his master had sent him from Paris—­which he had never touched before—­mounted the pony, and galloped off to the nearest village in search of provisions.  He found several fowls—­such as they were—­a splendid Bayonne ham, a few bottles of fine old wine, and by great good luck, discovered, at the priest’s house, a grand big pate of ducks’ livers—­a delicacy worthy of a bishop’s or a prince’s table—­and which he had much difficulty to obtain from his reverence, who was a bit of a gourmand, at an almost fabulous price.  But this was evidently a great occasion, and the faithful old servant would spare no pains to do it honour.  In less than an hour he was at home again, and leaving the charge of the cooking to a capable woman he had found and sent out to the chateau, he immediately proceeded to set the table, in the ancient banqueting hall—­gathering together all the fine porcelain and dainty glass that yet remained intact in the two tall buffets—­evidences of former splendour.  But the profusion of gold and silver plate that used to adorn the festive board of the de Sigognacs had all been converted into coin of the realm long ago.

When at last the old servant announced that dinner was ready, the two young men took their places opposite to each other at table, and Vallombreuse, who was in the gayest, most jovial mood, attacked the viands with an eagerness and ferocity immensely diverting to his host.  After devouring almost the whole of a chicken, which, it is true, seemed to have died of a consumption, there was so little flesh on its bones, he fell back upon the tempting, rosy slices of the delicate Bayonne ham, and then passed to the pate of ducks’ livers, which he declared to be supremely delicious, exquisite, ambrosial—­food fit for the gods; and he found the sharp cheese, made of goat’s milk, which followed, an excellent relish.  He praised the wine, too—­which was really very old and fine and drank it with great gusto, out of his delicate Venetian wine-glass.  Once, when he caught sight of Pierre’s bewildered, terrified look, as he heard his master address his merry guest as the Duke of Vallombreuse—­who ought to be dead, if he was not—­he fairly roared with laughter, and was as full of fun and frolic as a school-boy out for a holiday; Meantime de Sigognac, whilst he endeavoured to play the attentive host, and to respond as well as he could to the young duke’s lively sallies, could not recover from his surprise at seeing him sitting there opposite to himself, as a guest at his own table—­making himself very much at home, too, in the most charming, genial, easy way imaginable—­and yet he was the haughty, overbearing, insolent young nobleman, who had been his hated rival; whom he had twice encountered and defeated, in fierce combat, and who had several times tried to compass his death by means of hired ruffians.  What could be the explanation of it all?