The gruff old soldier protested that it was no more than a one-handed scheme.
“We cannot fight a man like this Governor with one hand in irons, and that the sword-hand,” he said. “A rising to-night in the city would mean everything to us here. There might be bloodshed it is true; but blood has been shed before and will be shed again in many a worse cause. Nor could anything really serious happen before d’Alembert reaches the city.”
“We will fight if we are forced in self-defence, Dubois, but we will not force the fighting from our side,” was Gerard’s reply. “This is Mademoiselle de Malincourt’s matter more than ours, and her will must prevail.”
“It will fail, my lord,” was the answer bluntly spoken.
“Then we’ll try something else that will succeed. I am quite resolved. Let it be as I say.”
“So much for a woman’s leadership,” growled Dubois to Pascal as he was starting with Babillon.
“He might take another view if he’d had as much married experience as you,” laughed Pascal.
“If he lives to marry her,” was the gloomy response. “To think he should sacrifice a chance like this for the sake of a squeamish girl.”
“Get those arms, man, and we may have yet a tough bout or two here,” but Dubois shook his head discontentedly. Pascal looked after him and shrugged his shoulders, as he muttered to himself: “Your husband never sees the same light in a pair of bright eyes as your lover. Save me from marrying, say I, Pascal de la Tour.”
A soft laugh broke in on his soliloquy, and he turned to find Lucette looking at him, her face severely demure but her eyes dancing with quizzical light.