that it would be easy to collect in the neighbourhood litter and forage enough for their horses.  The provost listened contemptuously to these fine promises, gave the necessary orders as to what was to be done, and slid off his horse, uttering an oath proceeding from heat and fatigue.  The horsemen clustered round the young man:  one held his stirrup, and the provost deferentially gave way to him to enter the inn first.  No, more doubt could be entertained that he was a prisoner of importance, and all kinds of conjectures were made.  The men maintained that he must be charged with a great crime, otherwise a young nobleman of his rank would never have been arrested; the women argued, on the contrary, that it was impossible for such a pretty youth not to be innocent.

Inside the inn all was bustle:  the serving-lads ran from cellar to garret; the host swore and despatched his servant-girls to the neighbours, and the hostess scolded her daughter, flattening her nose against the panes of a downstairs window to admire the handsome youth.

There were two tables in the principal eating-room.  The provost took possession of one, leaving the other to the soldiers, who went in turn to tether their horses under a shed in the back yard; then he pointed to a stool for the prisoner, and seated himself opposite to him, rapping the table with his thick cane.

“Ouf!” he cried, with a fresh groan of weariness, “I heartily beg your pardon, marquis, for the bad wine I am giving you!”

The young man smiled gaily.

“The wine is all very well, monsieur provost,” said he, “but I cannot conceal from you that however agreeable your company is to me, this halt is very inconvenient; I am in a hurry to get through my ridiculous situation, and I should have liked to arrive in time to stop this affair at once.”

The girl of the house was standing before the table with a pewter pot which she had just brought, and at these words she raised her eyes on the prisoner, with a reassured look which seemed to say, “I was sure that he was innocent.”

“But,” continued the marquis, carrying the glass to his lips, “this wine is not so bad as you say, monsieur provost.”

Then turning to the girl, who was eyeing his gloves and his ruff—­

“To your health, pretty child.”

“Then,” said the provost, amazed at this free and easy air, “perhaps I shall have to beg you to excuse your sleeping quarters.”

“What!” exclaimed the marquis, “do we sleep here?”

“My lord;” said the provost, “we have sixteen long leagues to make, our horses are done up, and so far as I am concerned I declare that I am no better than my horse.”

The marquis knocked on the table, and gave every indication of being greatly annoyed.  The provost meanwhile puffed and blowed, stretched out his big boots, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.  He was a portly man, with a puffy face, whom fatigue rendered singularly uncomfortable.