Of all the virtues that adorn mankind, none is so common as the virtue of necessity—or so little sought after. By reason of that virtue, and because a slender purse is a great persuader to modesty, we kept by the villages, avoiding Bethune, Arras, Montdidier and their like, though omitting the last of these, at least, was little mortification of the flesh, for the town had never fully recovered from its harrying in '75 when the King took it from the Burgundians.

For the most part, these villages were mere warty outcroppings of filth upon the face of a fair country, some not even with a wine shop so poor were they. But if we lay hardly, ate coarsely, and at times carried out in the morning more than we had brought in at night, we paid little; so that our bloodletting was where we could most spare it. Boorish roughness we met in plenty, but no discourtesy. The poor folk were more accustomed to being robbed than paid, and where the company was more villainous than common we slipped our bed across the door, and so rested in peace.

"Wait till we reach Paris," was Martin's nightly cry, as we stayed our hunger on sour bread and sourer wine. "Five nights more—four nights—three nights—and the Star of Dauphiny pays for all. Such an inn, Monsieur Gaspard! My late master, your father, gave it all his custom. It was neither too grand nor too common, too dear nor too cheap. My Lord Duke found amusement to tickle his greatness, and a poor gentleman could be at his ease and no questions asked. May the devil choke these scoundrels, but I think they've drawn the wine from the vinegar butt by mistake."

It was late in the afternoon when we entered Paris by the St. Denis gate, and made our way to the Rue du Temple, off which, the first turn to the right as one faces the river, and immediately fronting the huge crenellated outer wall of the Temple precinct, opened the street in which was situated Martin's famous inn. Of its gay surroundings, its cheery brightness, its constant bubble of laughter, he had spoken so often and so joyously that the sordid frowsiness of the Rue Neuve Saint Martin, a crooked, ghastly byeway of blistered walls, was a dismal surprise. So narrow was it, so filthy, so full of evil smells, that any question as to the reception of such a pair of out-at-elbows as ourselves vanished. The inn that could thrive upon such squalor could not afford to be nice as to its guests.

In my ignorance of life the natural deduction from that premise never struck me; that the guests would be such as could not afford to be nice as to their inn. But as we wound into an ever-increasing gloom, an ever-growing sinister suggestiveness, a doubt arose that Martin's whole story was a legend of his imagination.

"Are you sure," I began, waving a hand before my face in the vain hope of drawing a sweeter breath, "sure that my father—?"

"I give you my word," he protested. "The Sieur Hellewyl, Monsieur de Commines, Monsieur de Vesc—" the name attracted him, for he was Dauphiny born—"Monsieur—Monsieur—oh! a score of them. But Paris has changed since then, or I have."

"Monsieur de Commines?" I repeated, "are you really sure?"

"Certainly; Monsieur de Commines, did I not say so before? He was little more than a boy at the time, but a bold one. I say, friend," he shouted, stooping to peer into the black vacancy of an open door out of which there came a burr of voices. It was significant that in the Rue Neuve Saint Martin there were no windows on the ground floor. "Whereabouts is the Star of Dauphiny?"

Un the instant the rumble of talk ceased, but it was not until Martin had repeated his question that a man came to the door, a whitefaced, underfed fellow, whose sinewy arms were naked to the shoulders. Without replying he leaned against the door, half within the house and half without, eyeing us and our horses critically.

"Does your master lodge there to-night?" he asked at last, lounging forward to the middle of the street that he might examine us the better.

Before Martin could answer, saying, perhaps more than was wise, I cut in with a curt, "Yes." But his curiosity was still unsatisfied.

"And are there many more of you?"

"My friend, we asked a question."

"And I another."

"You are impertinent."

"And you a dolt! What hedgerow bred you? Don't you see the place might not have room for you all? Are there more of you?"

"No."

"Then your master has the fewer clods. How far have you ridden to-day?"

"Come, come," I said impatiently, "that, at least, has nothing to do with how many beds there are at an inn. Where is the Star of Dauphiny?"

"There's no such place," he answered coolly.

"No such place?"

"No. Ah ha! Now you're civil, my stout clod-thumper. No such place. Fifteen years ago it became the Star of Provence, and since then it has been the host of heaven, but with none of the angels. Now, with the Dauphin's marriage to his three years' baby of a wife, it is the turn of the Flemings, and you'll find the Star of Flanders on the right hand round the second curve of the street."

"Then good day to you, and a civiller tongue in your head," cried Martin, spurring Ninus forward to drive over the fellow.

But he was too quick, and hopped for his doorway, dealing the poor innocent brute a cruel blow on the muzzle as he passed.

"Good day, clod," he answered. "Chut! You cannot even plough straight. You'll need more wit to your skull than that in Paris."

"I owe you one for that," cried Martin, as Ninus plunged, squealing.

"Owe away! To owe and never pay is Paris fashion," he replied laughing, and barred the door behind him, shutting himself into darkness.

To have hammered against that stout barrier, belted with iron as broad as our palms, would have skinned our knuckles for nothing, so we rode on, Martin swearing as he had not sworn since he cursed Jan Meert. Nor did a sight of the Star of Flanders, though it was the end of the first stage of our journey, bring sweetness to his temper, nor, indeed, to mine either. Instead of the cheeriness, the gaiety, the flash and sparkle of court life, there was a dingy arch in the flat of a dingy wall and six or eight dusty, small paned windows, so veiled by heavy gratings as to suggest groans of the prison-house rather than bubbling laughter. But it was too late to seek other quarters, so we rode on into the courtyard.

Supper? Certainly. Beds? A bed, one, perhaps; were we princes of the blood in disguise that we wanted beds apiece? Supper and a bed, yes, but pay before you stir the horses in the morning; that's the rule of the house. The insolence was galling, but poverty must pocket affronts, nor, let there be ever so many, is the pouch so filled that there is no room for another. We might have blustered, but to trim ragged clothes with airs and graces as if they were so much gold lace is to crown misfortune with folly, so we bore the scorn of the groundling in silence.

One effect it had, it put an end to Martin's insistence on obsequious service; that rags should serve rags could only make rags ridiculous. But even our humility refused to sup in the common room. There any prowler of the gutters who had five sous in his pocket could drink, game, and swear as it pleased him, which for the first two was as deep as these same five sous, and for the last at his foul throat's loudest.

At first the host would have hectored us. But judiciously used, a little money can make a great noise in the world, and Martin rattled his coins.

"Who pays chooses," said he, withdrawing his head from the room. "Lay for us elsewhere, landlord. When we wish to sup with mongrels in a dog-kennel we'll tell thee."

With a grunt the fellow turned back across the open court, round which the inn was built, and led us to a decent, quiet, long-shaped room that bounded the further side. It was dingy, narrow, and low-ceiled, but empty. Two tables, end to end with a break between, and benches at either side, filled its centre.

"Lay here," said Martin pointing to the upper end of that nearest the door.

But I demurred. "No; on the second table and at the further end. It is more private."

"But, Monsieur Gaspard, to be near the door—"

"Is to be near draughts. We have no one to fear in Paris."

"In a city where they strike dumb beasts there are always rogues."

"But not to be feared."

"Feared? No, but to be guarded against."

"Even so, the further from the door, the less the surprise. And what, in all the world, have we to guard? Lay there, landlord."

Midway through our meal of one dish came the first incursion on our solitude. Two men, one slouched and cloaked like a brigand, entered, and at sight of us, would have withdrawn again. But the landlord intervened.

"In ten minutes they are done, Monsieur," said he, a new servility struggling with his old surliness. "We have no other room except sleeping rooms."

"Which would not do. Bring wine and take away that candle," he went on, seating himself at the further end of the room in such a position that he faced the door. His companion, obedient to a gesture, also seated himself, but with a yard or two of space between. "Give it to these—ah—gentlemen yonder; they are almost in darkness."

"They've light enough to see to their mouths," he answered insolently, "and so I'll leave it."

"And I too much to see your face in," was the pat and no less insolent reply, "therefore you'll take it away."

It was the right method to deal with the fellow, for he at once bowed with a cringe.

"I'll fetch the wine, Monsieur; good, I suppose?"

"If you've got it!" and he went, taking the candle with him.

At the arbitrary limitation put upon us, Martin would have flared out had I not restrained him, and though he laughed at the stranger's bitter retort over the disputed light, he whispered, "It is not the landlord's face he loves the darkness for, but his own; see how he hides it."

"Let him," I answered; "a thing may be honest enough, and yet better hidden; look at our rags."

"For them we have to thank Jan Meert."

"And he God Almighty for his face."

Though both were plainly dressed, I could soon tell they were not on a par. Only one spoke, and when the wine came, though he poured some into his glass, he drank none, but pushed the bottle impatiently on to his neighbour as if deeper things to think of gave him a contempt for such toys. As to the man nearest us, he took both the wine and the touch of arrogance as a matter of course, and swallowed each with a relish as men do both gifts and slights of the great.

Thus we sat till the ten minutes were up and we had finished our meal but not our wine. Then, as the host came bustling up to rout us out I bade Martin softly leave him to me.

"Now that you've eaten," said he, "perhaps the other room will be nice enough for your lordships' nobility."

"This is nice enough for want of better," I answered; "but it is dull; bring us the dice."

"Dice elsewhere; this room is bespoke."

"Aye, by us."

"But these gentlemen—"

"Came last."

The man in the cloak settled the dispute.

"Let them stay," he cried out. "Messieurs, an end of the room for you, and an end for us. Will that content you?"

"If the other room were not a doghole——" I began.

But he interrupted me with an outbreak of the same supercilious arrogance, saying curtly:

"Have I not said it was settled? If I am content, surely you may be," and fell again silent.

"What did I say?" whispered Martin, rubbing his hands that he had at last found confirmation for his tales, "a duke or a simple gentleman, the Sieur Hellewyl, Monsieur de Commines, Monsieur de Vesc; eh, Monsieur Gaspard?"

It was while we were still playing at playing with the dice that the second interruption came. With much politeness but yet more curiosity three further guests were ushered in, and again two of them were hooded like conspirators, but this time with a difference—they were women. Their age or figures no man could guess, so hidden were they, but one was tall, and bore herself with a carriage that suggested lissom activity. The third of their party was as frankly revealed as they were frankly disguised; a sinewy broad-shouldered man, with Soldier written largely on him from head to heel in characters that spoke louder than the weapons at hip and thigh.

The three stood in silence together until—some trivial order having been given and obeyed—the door shut out the landlord's inquisition. Then, as if by common consent, the smaller woman with their guard—for in that capacity he attended them there could be no doubt—moved round the head of the table to where was an open fireplace set in a deep alcove midway down the wall opposite the door. The humbler of the two first comers joined them there, but stood apart, leaving his leader and the taller of the women in comparative isolation at the further end of the room.

At her entrance he had risen, bowing with the careless courtesy of a stranger and receiving in return as negligent an acknowledgment; but though my curiosity had been stirred like that of the landlord, it was her first word that fairly aroused it.

"Narbonne," said he.

"Argenton," was the answer.