"The Queen!"

"What, Madame?"

"The same. Adieu, my good Perigord." And the graceful stranger
rode away. An interval of quiet succeeded, in which the innkeeper
gazed wofully at his wife. Suddenly he was startled by a clatter
of hoofs, and an aristocratic figure stood in the doorway.

"Ah," said the courtier good-naturedly. "What, do my eyes deceive
me? No, it is the festive and luxurious Perigord. Perigord,
listen. I famish. I languish. I would dine."

The innkeeper again covered the table with viands. Again it was
swept clean as the fields of Egypt before the miraculous swarm of
locusts. The stranger looked up.

"Bring me another fowl, my Perigord."

"Impossible, your excellency; the larder is stripped clean."

"Another flitch of bacon, then."

"Impossible, your highness; there is no more."

"Well, then, wine!"

The landlord brought one hundred and forty-four bottles. The
courtier drank them all.