"About fifteen livres seems to be all, sir. They are poor here. It is a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to give fifteen livres."
Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "Well, tell them that, if they can find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give fifteen, and I will do the same. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured, the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But it will soften matters a little to the poor woman. I rather grudge letting the money go into French pockets—but I'd defy any one with proper sensibilities to stand out against that poor creature's misery."
Denham explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in its abandon of joy. One of the young men present who was eligible but who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward, and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.
Thereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval; while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's discomfiture.
"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you think necessary, and then come along."
A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which the Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them with a certain reticent indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes bent upon poor old Mme. Paulet were infinitely kind.
Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his unexpected escape.
"Bonjour, Monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going to fight against the English just yet."
Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur le Colonel's friend.
It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.