1. CHAPTER I.
SHOWING THE QUALITY OF THE CUSTOMERS OF THE INNKEEPER OF
PROVINS.
Twenty years after, the gigantic innkeeper of
Provins stood looking at a cloud of dust on the highway.
This cloud of dust betokened the approach of a
traveler. Travelers had been rare that season on
the highway between Paris and Provins.
The heart of the innkeeper rejoiced. Turning to
Dame Perigord, his wife, he said, stroking his white
apron:
St. Denis! make haste and spread the cloth. Add
a bottle of Charlevoix to the table. This traveler,
who rides so fast, by his pace must be a Monseigneur.
Truly the traveler, clad in the uniform of a musketeer,
as he drew up to the door of the hostelry,
did not seem to have spared his horse. Throwing
his reins to the landlord, he leaped lightly to the
ground. He was a young man of four and twenty,
and spoke with a slight Gascon accent.
“I am hungry, Morbleu! I wish to dine!”
The gigantic innkeeper bowed and led the way to
a neat apartment, where a table stood covered with
tempting viands. The musketeer at once set to
work. Fowls, fish and pâtés disappeared before
him. Perigord sighed as she witnessed the devastations.
Only once the stranger paused.
“Wine!” Perigord brought wine. The stranger
drank a dozen bottles. Finally he rose to depart.
Turning to the expectant landlord, he said:
“Charge it.”
“To whom, your highness?” said Perigord, anxiously.
“To his Eminence!”
“Mazarin!” ejaculated the innkeeper.
“The same. Bring me my horse,” and the musketeer,
remounting his favorite animal, rode away.
The innkeeper slowly turned back into the inn.
Scarcely had he reached the courtyard, before the
clatter of hoofs again called him to the doorway.
A young musketeer of a light and graceful figure,
rode up.
“Parbleu, my dear Perigord, I am famishing.
What have you got for dinner?”
“Venison, capons, larks and pigeons, your excellency,”
replied the obsequious landlord, bowing to
the ground.
“Enough!” The young musketeer dismounted
and entered the inn. Seating himself at the table
replenished by the careful Perigord, he speedily
swept it as clean as the first comer.
“Some wine, my brave Perigord,” said the graceful
young musketeer, as soon as he could find utterance.
Perigord brought three dozen of Charlevoix. The
young man emptied them almost at a draught.
“By-by, Perigord,” he said lightly, waving his
hand, as, preceding the astonished landlord, he slowly
withdrew.
“But, your highness—the bill,” said the astounded
Perigord.
“Ah, the bill. Charge it!”
“To whom?”
“The Queen!”
“What, Madame?”
“The same. Adieu my good Perigord,” and the
graceful stranger rode away. An interval of quiet
succeeded, in which the innkeeper gazed woefully
at his wife. Suddenly he was startled by a clatter
of hoofs, and an aristocratic figure stood in the doorway.
“Ah,” said the courtier good naturedly. “What,
do my eyes deceive me? No, it is the festive and
luxurious Perigord. Perigord, listen. I famish. I
languish. I would dine.”
The innkeeper again covered the table with viands.
Again it was swept clean as the fields of Egypt before
the miraculous swarm of locusts. The stranger
looked up.
“Bring me another fowl, my Perigord.”
“Impossible, your excellency, the larder is
stripped clean.”
“Another flitch of bacon, then.”
“Impossible, your highness—there is no more.”
“Well, then, wine!”
The landlord brought one hundred and forty-four
bottles. The courtier drank them all.
“One may drink if one cannot eat,” said the aristocratic
stranger, good-humoredly.
The innkeeper shuddered.
The guest rose to depart. The innkeeper came
slowly forward with his bill, to which he had covertly
added the losses which he had suffered from the previous
strangers.
“Ah! the bill—charge it.”
“Charge it! to whom?”
“To the King,” said the guest.
“What! his Majesty?”
“Certainly. Farewell, Perigord.”
The innkeeper groaned. Then he went out and
took down his sign. Then remarked to his wife:
“I am a plain man, and don't understand politics.
It seems, however, that the country is in a
troubled state. Between his Eminence the Cardinal,
his Majesty the King, and her Majesty the Queen,
I am a ruined man.”
“Stay,” said Dame Perigord, “I have an idea.”
“And that is—”
“Become yourself a musketeer.”
