"Are you ill, mother?" asked Réginard anxiously.
"No; but I fear our beds too often and too long are cold in this land of late; the climate here is affreux. Too much wood is given over to ships. Have we not enough?" She spoke lightly, and smiled as she spoke. "You come later, monsieur, than we had hoped," she added. "I fear we have no fit welcome for you, our benefactor, who in restoring to us our son have restored the light of our life, even as did Gandault for Théodien in giving his recipe for cognac, and that the food and drink here will not be to your liking."
The Count bowed low, but was even paler than Mme. de Pérégrin, and he did not smile. "Mariners are not hard to please," he said. "For despite my rank, so I consider myself. I have enjoyed far worse hospitality than yours: there are houses whose cuisine is of the most mediocre." He frowned imperceptibly; fifteen years ago on that day he had passed through the gate of the Castle of Loqueholles, and although he had issued therefrom alive again, the memory was very evil, like the nightmare that results from an excess of pipe-weed.
