Doubtless they thought he could not speak their language or they would have been more careful.
Half way through the dinner and the door was thrown open, admitting a gorgeous figure and a great gust of words.

It was a young man in a brilliant uniform, his hair long, perfumed, powdered and curled, and his face flushed.

Robert recognized him at once as that same Count Jean de Mezy who had passed them in the flying carriage.

Behind came two officers of about the same age, but of lower rank, seeking his favor and giving him adulation.
His roving eye traveled around the room, and, resting upon the three guests, became inflamed.
"Ah, Nemours, and you, Le Moyne," he said, "look there and behold the two Bostonnais and the Iroquois of whom we have heard, sitting here in our own Inn of the Eagle!" "But there is no war, not as yet," said Nemours, although he spoke in an obsequious tone.
"But it will come," said de Mezy loudly, "and then, gentlemen, this lordly Quebec of ours, which has known many English captives, will hold multitudes of them." There were cries of "Silence!" "Not so loud!" "Don't insult guests!" but de Mezy merely laughed and said: "They don't understand! The slow-witted English never know any tongue but their own." The red flush in Robert's face deepened and he moved angrily.
"Quiet, boy! Quiet!" whispered the hunter.

"He wants a quarrel, and he is surrounded by his friends, while we're strangers in a strange land and a hostile city.