within two hours the bishops secretary, a smart young cleric dressed in the italian fashion, with many frills to his soutane, was bearing the invitation of his master to the gentlemen to visit him in his study.this, of course, involved leaving claire behind, for anatole long ordered the abbé john to accompany him, while the girl declared that, with jeanauxchoux to keep her company, she had fear of nothing and nobody.she had not, however, taken her account with the curiosity of madame celeste gillifleur, who, as soon as the men were gone to the episcopal palace, entered the room where claire was seated at her knitting, while jeanauxchoux read aloud the french genevan bible.cabbage jock deftly covered the small quarto volume with a collection of songs published (as usual) at the hague.the fairer the hostess the fouler the soup! muttered jean, as he retired into a corner, humming the refrain of a leaguer song.madame gillifleur saluted her enemy with the duck of a hen which has finished drinking.to her claire bowed the slightest of acknowledgments.to what do i owe this honour? she inquired, with dryness.i thought my lady, the professors niece, might be in need of some servicea tiringmaid perhaps? began the landlady.my own you would be heartily welcome to, but she is a fresh, foolish wench from the sologne, and would sooner groom a nag of beauce than pin aright a ladys stomacher! but i can obtain one from the townnot too respectable, i fear.but for my lady, and for one night, i suppose that does not matter.ha, from the town! grumbled jeanauxchoux out of his windowseat.then he hummed, nodding his head and wagging his finger as if he had just found the words in his songbook: eyes and ears, ears and eyes who hires maids, lacks never spies! the landlady darted a furious look at the interrupter.who may this rude fellow be, that is not afraid to give his tongue such liberty in my house? jeanauxchoux answered for himself, as indeed he was well able to do.i am philosopherinchief to the league; and as for that, when i am at home with his grace of guise, he and i wear motley day about! the face of the landlady changed.remembering the learned professor of the sorbonne, who had gone to visit the bishop, she turned quickly to claire and asked, does the fellow speak truth? is he really the jester to the great duke, the good prince, the glory of the league? i have reason to believe it, said claire calmly; but, for your complete satisfaction, you can ask my uncle the professor upon his return.i trust they will not be long gone, grumbled jeanauxchoux.i have an infallible clock here under the third button of my tunic, which tells me it is long past dinnertime.and if it be not a good worthy meal, i shall by no means advise his grace to dismount at the golden lark when next he passes through orleans! holy saint marthe! cried the landlady; i will go this minute, and see what they are doing in the kitchen.i will warm their scullion backs i think i smell burned meat! continued jeanauxchoux.faith, but is it true that the duke of guise is indeed coming this way? madame celeste gillifleur asked anxiously.true, indeed, affirmed jean, with his nose in the air, and before the year is out, too.but, madame, my good hostess, there is nothing he dislikes so much as the smell of good meat spoiled in the basting.i will attend to the basting myself, and that forthwith! cried the lady of the golden lark, darting kitchenwards at full speed, and forgetting all the questions she had come up to ask of claire in the absence of her legitimate protectors.jeanauxchoux laughed as she went out, and inclined his ear.sounds which indicated the basting of not yet inanimate flesh, arrived from the kitchen.mistress, mistress, cried a voice, i am dead, bruised, scaldedhave pity on me! pity is it, you rascal?the sharp tones of madame celeste rose highhave you not wasted my good dripping, burnt my meat, offended these gentlemen, spoiled their dinner, so that they will report ill things of the golden lark to his most noble grace of guise? pityoh, pity! followed a rapid rushing of feet to and fro in the kitchen.furniture was overturned.something of the nature of a bastingladle struck sonorously on tables and scattered pattypans on the floor.a door slammed, shaking the house, and a blueclad kitchen boy fled down the narrow street, while madame celeste, bastingladle in hand, fumed and gesticulated in his wake.chapter viii.the golden lark in orleans town now, said jeanauxchoux, unless i go down and help at the turningspit myself, we are further off dinner than ever.i will also pump the lady dry of information in a quarter of an hour, which, in such a leaguer town, is always a useful thing.but stay where you are, my lady claire, and keep the door open.you will smell burnt fat, but the fool of the three henries will be with you in as many jumps of a grasshopper whenever you want him.you have only to call, and lo, you have me! when jean had disappeared to do double duty as spy and kitchendrudge beneath, claire went to the window which looked out upon the marketplace.from beneath in the kitchen she could hear shouts of laughter climb up and die away.she knew that jeanauxchoux was at his tricks, and that, with five minutes grace, he could get to windward of any landlady that ever lived, let alone such a merry plump one as madame celeste.that dame indeed disliked all pretty women on principle.but she was never quite sure whether she preferred an ugly witty man who made her laugh, or a handsome dull man who only treated her as a gentleman ought.but womenyoung women and pretty womenpah, she could not abide them! and by this we can guess her age, for not so long ago she had been young and even pretty herself.the tide that comes in the affairs of men is not nearly so marked as the ebb which comes in the affairs of women.claire stood a long while meditating, her eyes following the movement of the marketplace vaguely, but without any real care for what was happening.she truly mourned her father, but she possessed much of that almost exclusively masculine temperament which says after any catastrophe, well, what is the next thing to be done? i care nothing about my mothers people, she meditated to herself, but i would see her home, her land, her country.she had never seen her fathers.but when he had spoken to her of the fresh winds, lashing rains, and driving snows, with nevertheless the rose blooming in the sheltered corners about the old house on christmas day, she had somehow known it all.but collioure and its sanddunes, the deep sapphire of the southern sea, cut across by the paler blue line of the skyshe could not imagine that, even when the professor and the abbé john, with tears glittering in their eyes, spoke together in the strange pathetic speech of _la petite patrie_.but she would like to see itthe strand where the little colette had played, the dunes down which she had slidden, and the gold and rose of the towers of château collioure, within which her mother was born.a noise without attracted her attention.a procession was entering the square