LITMIR.BIZ

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of the king and his minister to quarter himself upon the marquis instead of going to an inn. Therefore, he gazed up at the mansion before which he stood waiting, wondering what kind of man was this who dwelt in it.

      The house itself was large and vast, having innumerable windows giving on to a large, open, bare place in front of it, while the great porte cochère had a lock which looked as though it would resist an attack either of battering rams or gunpowder if brought against it. But the blinds, or shutters, were all closed; the great door itself looked as though it had not been opened for a century; the knocker – a Christ upon the cross! – as though it had not been raised for as long a time.

      "Phélypeaux," muttered St. Georges to himself. "Phélypeaux! I know the name; what do I know of him? Let me think. Ha! I have it. A soldier like myself. Also another, a brother, a priest, Bishop of Lodève – which is my host, I wonder? For choice the soldier, if all is true of the bishop that is told. Mon enfant," turning to the urchin, "is the marquis soldier or divine?"

      The boy laughed, then said:

      "Divine, monsieur. But en retraite. Oh! avez ça– they say droll things. Only I am young – I do not know." Whereon he grinned. Then he exclaimed: "Voilà! the door is opening."

      It was, in truth, or rather a wicket in the door large enough to admit a man who should stoop, or the urchin by the side of St. Georges; but certainly by no means large enough to admit of the passage of his horse if that was also to be entertained for the night.

      At that wicket appeared a face, wine-stained and blotchy, but not so good-humoured-looking as that of the watchman at the southern gate. Instead, a scowling face, as of a man on whom good liquor had no improving effect, but, rather, had soured and embittered him.

      "What want you?" he asked, staring out moodily at the soldier before him and at his horse, and observing the great sword, hat, and cloak of the former with – beneath the latter – its burden; and also the military trappings of the steed. "What want you?"

      "An audience of the marquis. By order of the king. Also food and lodging by the same authority. Ma foi! if I had my way I should not demand it. There is a good auberge over there to all appearances," nodding his head toward the white-walled inn on the other side of the place, before which hung a bush and on which was painted the whole length of the house: "L'Ours de Bourgogne. Logement à pied et à cheval." "Doubtless I could be well accommodated."

      "Take your horse there, at any rate," said the sour-faced man; "there is no accommodation for it. Then come back. We will see later about you." And turning to the boy he cried, gesticulating with his hands: "Va t'en. Be off!"

      The lad did not wait to be bidden a second time to depart, but scampered across the open place, while St. Georges, regarding the morose-looking man in front of him, said: "My friend, neither your courtesy nor your hospitality is of the best. Does your master bid you treat all who come to visit him in this manner?"

      "I am obeying my master," the other replied; "the only one I acknowledge – when I parley with you. Show me your warrant, however, for coming to this house."

      "There it is," replied St. Georges; "take it to your master, bid him read it, and then bring me whatever message he may send me. Perhaps" – regarding the servitor through the wicket, as he gave him the paper – "if the master is like the man I had best wait until he has read the king's letter ere I seek shelter for my horse. It may be that I shall have to demand it for myself also at the inn."

      Then, to his amazement, he saw that the other had opened the leaves of the king's letter and was calmly reading them. "Fellow!" he exclaimed, "how dare you make so bold? You read a letter from the king to me – to be shown to your master – "

      "Pish!" replied the other. "Be silent. I am Phélypeaux."

      "You!" exclaimed the soldier, stepping back – "you!" and his eye fell on the rusty-brown clothing of the man half in, half out, the wicket. "You!"

      "Yes, I. Now go and put your horse up at the inn. Then come back. But stay – what have you beneath your arm?"

      "A child."

      "A child! Does Louis think I keep a nursery? What are we to do with the child while you stay here?"

      "I will attend to that. If you give me a bed the child will share it, and if you have some white bread and milk it is enough for its food."

      "Best get that at the 'Ours,'" replied he who said he was Phélypeaux. "Bread I have, but no milk. Ma foi! there is no babes' food here. Now, I counsel you, go seek the inn. Your horse may take a chill. Then come back. And" – as the soldier turned to lead his animal across the snow-covered, deserted place– "leave the child there. The patronne is a motherly creature with half a dozen of her own brood. 'Twill be better there than here. Ring loudly when you return – I am somewhat deaf," and he banged the wicket in St. Georges's face.

      "Humph!" muttered the latter, as he crossed to the inn; "the counsel is good. That seems no place for a child. Yet, how to leave it? Still, it is best. It has slept often with its nurse; maybe will sleep well at the inn. Well, let me see what the patronne is like."

      He entered the yard of the "Ours" as he meditated thus, engaged a stall for the animal, saw it fed and rubbed down, and, then taking his pistols and the king's letter from the holsters and putting them in his belt, entered the hostelry and called for a cup of wine. And, seeing that the woman who served him – evidently the mistress from the manner in which she joked with one or two customers and gave directions to a servant – was a motherly looking woman, he asked her if the child he carried would be safe there for the night?

      "A child," she exclaimed, "a child, and in the arms of a soldier! Why, sir, whence come you with a child? Mon Dieu! Of all burdens, soldiers rarely carry such as that."

      "Nevertheless, I carry such a one. I am on the road from Pontarlier to Paris with my child, and I sleep to-night across the way at the Marquis Phélypeaux's. It seems there is no accommodation there for infants."

      "Hein!" screamed the woman, turning to the customers in the place; "you hear that?" Then addressing herself to St. Georges, she continued: "You speak well, monsieur; that is no place for children. Ma foi! the old scélérat would be as like to eat it."

      CHAPTER II.

      HOSPITALITY!

      "Who, then, is Phélypeaux?" asked St. Georges as he sat himself down in front of the great kitchen fire – the kitchen serving always in a Burgundian inn as the general place of assembly and serving room. "Who is Phélypeaux?"

      "Monsieur does not, in truth, know?" she replied, with a glance at the customers – one a mousquetaire, himself en route to Bar to join his regiment, and the other evidently a shopkeeper of the place. The former had risen and saluted St. Georges as he entered, seeing by his accoutrements and lace1 that he was an officer, and now he joined in the conversation deferentially.

      "In truth, monsieur, he is a rarity, an oddity. He is priest and bishop both – "

      "So," interrupted St. Georges, "he is the Bishop of Lodève. I have heard of him. He has a brother, I think, comrade, who follows our profession."

      "That is true, monsieur. One who will go far. 'Twas but last year the king sent him ambassador to Cologne; now they say he goes to Turin."

      "So, so. But this one here – this bishop? And if Bishop of Lodève, what does he do in Burgundy?"

      "Villainies, scélératesses," interrupted the hostess, turning away from the fowl she was basting on the spit and emphasizing her remarks with her great wooden spoon. "Oh! figure to yourself – he is a villain. Ma foi, oui! A bishop! Ha! A true one. Boasts he believes not in a God, yet rules Languedoc with a rod of iron since Cardinal Bonzi fell off his perch; entertains the wickedest mondaines of Louis's court as they pass through Lodève; has boys to sing to him while he dines and – and – But there," she concluded as she turned to the fowl again; "he is a Phélypeaux. That tells all. They are sacred with the king."

      "But

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