"Yes," said the innkeeper. "And remorse devours me. I have tasted for many years the bitterness of the cup of vin ordinaire I mixed for myself, always fearing yet worse in the dregs. For Samouard will never forgive me; his spirit will turn me into something unnatural, like a faithful husband."
"You have spoken frankly; confession merits forgiveness. But you have spoken of M. Morrie; what role did he play?"
"That of an honest, courageous, and chic hobbite, monsieur. Twenty times he petitioned Villefaramir for Samouard, and never less than impeccably clad, so that at the restauration he was fort persecuted as a Sharcoléoniste. To say nothing of his efforts on behalf of le vieux Hamphât."
"Does M. Morrie live yet, and if so how, what life does he lead?"
"He lives, but ill; he is on the verge of misery, and worse yet: dishonor."
"How?" gasped the abbé.
