Late in the afternoon he was able to assure himself that his duty was
ended. He billeted his men, and inquired whether there was a hotel
where he could sleep the night. A French sergeant led him through the
streets to an Inn which matched in every detail of its appearance that
dingy quarter of the town. The plaster was peeling from its walls, the
window panes were broken, and in the upper storey and the roof there
were yawning jagged holes where the Prussian shells had struck. In the
dusk the building had a strangely mean and sordid look. It recalled
to Faversham's mind the inns in the novels of the elder Dumas and
acquired thus something of their sinister suggestions. In the eager
and arduous search of the day he had forgotten these apprehensions to
which he had given voice by the camp fire. They now returned to him
with the relaxation of his vigilance. He looked up at the forbidding
house. "I wonder," he said to himself.

He was met in the hall by a little obsequious man who was full of
apologies for the disorder of his hostelry. He opened a door into a
large and dusty room.

"I will do my best, Monsieur," said he, "but food is not yet plentiful
in Paris."

In the centre of the room was a large mahogany table surrounded by
chairs. The landlord began to polish the table with his napkin.

"We had an ordinary, Sir, every day before the war broke out. But most
cheerful, every chair had its regular occupant. There were certain
jokes, too, which every day were repeated. Ah, but it was like home.
However, all is changed as you see. It has not been safe to sit in
this room for many a long month."