Lucette was with her and had just told her that Gabrielle was safe at Malincourt, when he arrived, gloating at the thought of his coming triumph and brutally profuse in threats as to the punishment he would inflict. As soon as he had left, Lucette slipped away to put her own plan into operation.
She did not go to Antoine at once in the courtyard, but hung about until she saw Dauban and then put herself, as if by chance, in his way, and when she was sure he had seen her she made a great show of surprise and turned as if to hurry away from him. It was well acted.
“So you avoid me, mademoiselle?” he said, going after her.
“How dare you speak to me?” she cried indignantly.
“Fine airs for a prisoner,” he retorted.
“You are a noble fellow, indeed, to taunt a poor girl, Master Dauban. But have a care what you say. If I am a prisoner, I am in the charge of one who won’t see me insulted. Antoine de Cavannes is a man with a stouter arm than Master Dauban, any day,” and she tossed her pretty head and turned again on her heel.
This had just the effect she had calculated. He had been pondering over Antoine’s words, speculating who it was in his charge who knew the whereabouts of the runaways, and he chuckled now at his own cleverness in making the discovery.
“Not so fast, mademoiselle; I mean no harm. I am sorry for you and would help you. On my honour, I meant no insult,” he said, following her.
She stopped, but with an air of reluctance.
“Yet you did taunt me,” and she gave him a reproachful glance, with just enough suggestion of tenderness in it to make him uncomfortable. But with a sudden change her eye flashed and she cried contemptuously—