Madame Gobillot was an austere woman, though an innkeeper, and watched over her daughter with particular care, lest any ill-sounding or insiduous expression should reach her child’s ear.  Considering the company which frequented the house, the task was not easy.  So she was shocked at the young man’s last words, and although she did not quite understand his meaning, for that very reason she thought she scented a concealed poison more dangerous for Mademoiselle Reine than the awful words used by the drivers.  She dared not, however, show her displeasure to a customer, and one who seemed disposed to spend money freely; and, as usual in such circumstances, she vented her displeasure upon the persons immediately under her charge.

“Hurry now, Catherine!  Will you never finish setting the table?  I told you before to put on the Britannia; these gentlemen are used to eating with silver.  Listen to me when I am talking to you.  Who washed these glasses?  What a shame!  You are as afraid of water as a mad-dog.  And you! what are you staring at that chicken for, instead of basting it?  If you let it burn you shall go to bed without any supper.  If it is not provoking!” she continued, in a scolding tone, visiting her stewpans one after another, “everything is dried up; a fillet that was as tender as it could be will be scorched!  This is the third time that I have diluted the gravy.  Catherine! bring me a dish.  Now, then, make haste.”

“One thing is certain,” interrupted the artist, “that Gerfaut is making a fool of me.  I do not see what can have become of him.  Tell me, Madame Gobillot, are you certain that an amateur of art and the picturesque, travelling at this hour, would not be eaten by wolves or plundered by robbers in these mountains?”

“Our mountains are safe, Monsieur,” replied the landlady, with offended dignity; “except for the pedler who was assassinated six months ago and whose body was found in the Combe-aux-Renards—­”

“And the driver who was stopped three weeks ago in the Fosse,” added Mademoiselle Reine; “the thieves did not quite kill him, but he is still in the hospital at Remiremont.”

“Oh! that is enough to make one’s hair stand on end!  This is worse than the forest of Bondy!  Truly, if I knew what direction my friend took this morning, I would follow him with my pistols.”

“Here is Fritz,” said Madame Gobillot.  “He met a stranger in the woods who gave him ten sous for telling him the way to Bergenheim.  From his description, it seems that it must be the gentleman you speak of.  Tell us about it, Fritz.”

The child related in his Alsatian patois his meeting of the afternoon, and the artist was convinced that it was Gerfaut he had met.

“He must be wandering in the valley,” said he, “dreaming about our play.  But did you not say something about Bergenheim?  Is there a village near here by that name?”

“There is a chateau of that name, Monsieur, and it is about a league from here as you go up the river.”