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!”
I found my tongue.
“Was this what you wanted me for?” I asked.
“Of course,” said the duchess, speaking French again.
“But you can’t come with me!” I cried in unfeigned horror.