Her chagrin and indignation knew no bounds.

For a moment words failed her, but her flashing eyes said more than her tongue as she cried to me: 'Well, sir, and what now?
Is this the end of your fine promises?
Where is your Rosny, if all be not a lying invention of your own ?' Feeling that she had some excuse I suppressed my choler, and humbly repeating that Rosny was at his house, two days farther on, and that I could see nothing for it but to go to him, I asked the landlord where we could find a lodging for the night.
'Indeed, sir, that is more than I can say,' he answered, looking curiously at us, and thinking, I doubt not, that with my shabby cloak and fine horse, and mademoiselle's mask and spattered riding-coat, we were an odd couple.

'There is not an inn which is not full to the garrets--nay, and the stables; and, what is more, people are chary of taking strangers in.

These are strange times.

They say,' be continued in a lower tone, 'that the old queen is dying up there, and will not last the night.' I nodded.