CHAPTER IX
OF HOW A WHIP PROVED A BETTER ARGUMENT THAN A TONGUE
"I crave Monsieur's pardon, but there is a gentleman below who desires to
speak with you immediately."
"How does this gentleman call himself, M. l'Hote?"
"M. le Marquis de St. Auban," answered the landlord, still standing in the
doorway.
It wanted an hour or so to noon on the day following that of St. Auban's
arrival at Blois, and I was on the point of setting out for the ch?teau on
an errand of warning.
It occurred to me to refuse to see the Marquis, but remembering betimes
that from your enemy's speech you may sometimes learn where to look for his
next attack, I thought better of it and bade my host admit him.
I strode over to the fire, and stirring the burning logs, I put my back to
the blaze, and waited.
Steps sounded on the stairs; there was the shuffling of the landlord's
slippered feet and the firm tread of my visitor, accompanied by the jingle
of spurs and the clank of his scabbard as it struck the balustrade. Then
my door was again opened, and St. Auban, as superbly dressed as ever, was
admitted.
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