where Jean was placidly smoking a long black cheroot.
“You wished to speak to me?” I suggested, as I walked by her.
“I can do it,” said the duchess, reaching the cart, “as we go along.”
Even Jean took his cheroot from his lips. I jumped back two paces.
“I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed, “As we go along, did you say?”
“It will be better,” said the duchess, getting into the cart (unassisted by me, I am sorry to say). “Because he may find out I’m gone, and come after us, you know.”
Nothing seemed more likely; I was bound to admit that.
“Get in, Mr. Aycon,” continued the duchess. And then she suddenly began to talk English. “I told him I shouldn’t stay in the house if Mlle. Delhasse came. He didn’t believe me; well, he’ll see now. I couldn’t stay, could I? Why don’t you get in?”
Half dazed, I got in. I offered no opinion on the question of Mlle. Delhasse: to begin with, I knew very little about it; in the second place there seemed to me to be a more pressing question.
“Quick, Jean!” said the duchess.
And we lumbered on at a trot, Jean twisting his cheroot round and round, and grunting now and again. The old man’s face said, plain as words.
“Yes, I shall get the sack; and you’ll be shot!”
