So it came to pass that sleepy Beauvais had suddenly stretched itself and aroused from slumber.  The Marquise was rich, her niece a wealthy heiress, much of both their fortunes not dependent upon French finance, and a golden harvest fell upon the simple mountaineers and cattle tenders.  Every available room was at the disposal of master or lackey, and the sleepy square was alive with men and women who had intrigued and danced at Versailles, who had played pastoral games with Marie Antoinette at the Trianon, whose names were famous.  Idlers were many in Beauvais, exiles awaiting the hour for return, for revenge upon the rabble, yet doing nothing to forward the hour; but there were many others, men who came and went full of news and endeavor.  Beauvais was a meeting place.  There one might hear the latest rumors from Paris, learn what help might be expected from Austria, from Prussia; and while news was gathered and given there was brilliant entertainment at the chateau.

“We may make even exile bearable,” the Marquise had said, and she did her utmost to do so.

It was into this wideawake village of Beauvais that Richard Barrington and Seth, weary and travel-stained, rode late one afternoon, and came to a halt before the inn.  They passed almost unnoticed, for strangers were a common sight, often quaintly disguised to escape their enemies.

There was no room in the inn, nor did the good landlady, who still seemed flurried with so much business to attend to, know where they would get a lodging.

“Every house is a hotel these days, and I think every house is full,” she said.  “All the world has come to Beauvais for the masked ball at the chateau.”

“There are still holes to be found,” said a man lounging by the door.  “My friend and I were in the same predicament, but we have found a corner.  I believe there is room of sorts still to be had in the house, and if Monsieur permits, I shall have pleasure in taking him there.”

“You are very good,” said Barrington.

The stranger led the way across the square to an old house set back between its neighbors, as though it were modest and shrinking from observation, or desirous of keeping a secret.  Its door was narrow and down a step from the roadway; its windows small, like half-closed eyes.

“Monsieur must expect little and even then get less than he expects, and pay dearly for it; but it is such a hole as this or a night in the open.”

“I am weary enough not to mind much where I sleep,” said Barrington.

“Add it all to the account which the canaille must some day pay,” answered the man.

A stuffy little loft of a room, adjoining another loft occupied by their guide and his friend, was all the space available, but it was better than nothing, and Barrington quickly came to terms with the owner of the house.

Monsieur le Comte, for so the proprietor addressed the man who had guided them to the house, departed, hoping for their further acquaintance presently, and offering them any help which it might be in his power to afford.