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We reached the Donjon Inn and entered it.
This time we did not see the landlord, but were received with a pleasant smile by the hostess. I have already described the room in which we found ourselves, and I have given a glimpse of the charming blonde woman with the gentle eyes who now immediately began to prepare our breakfast.
"How's Daddy Mathieu?" asked Rouletabille.
"Not much better - not much better; he is still confined to his bed."
"His rheumatism still sticks to him, then?"
"Yes. Last night I was again obliged to give him morphine - the only drug that gives him any relief."
She spoke in a soft voice. Everything about her expressed gentleness. She was, indeed, a beautiful woman; somewhat with an air of indolence, with great eyes seemingly black and blue - amorous eyes. Was she happy with her crabbed, rheumatic husband? The scene at which we had once been present did not lead us to believe that she was; yet there was something