He was
dressed in the soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual
to the French CURE, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw
open his soutane for a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of
officialism, which sight immediately had the effect of transforming
Brogard's attitude of contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.
It was the sight of this French CURE, which seemed to freeze the very
blood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was
shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony hands,
the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man! It was Chauvelin!
The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical
blow; the awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made
her very senses reel, and she needed almost superhuman effort, not to
fall senseless beneath it all.
"A plate of soup and a bottle of wine," said Chauvelin imperiously
to Brogard, "then clear out of here--understand? I want to be alone."
Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed.
Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall
Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him,
dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine.
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