“It would be a loveless marriage, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve heard of them before,” he laughed drily. “But it would certainly be a marriage of convenience.”
“And many of those are but little more acting than this. But I think in such a case I should be a scold.”
“I am afraid you would, but as my back will be to you when you’re on the pillion, I don’t know that that will matter. How clear the roads are,” he said, breaking into earnestness for a moment. His eyes had been cast sharply in all directions, despite his laughing manner and words.
“Do you think we shall get through? Poor Gabrielle is so anxious.”
“Aye, that’s one of the troubles. She’s too anxious to play her part well, I fear. She’s not like—Madame Burgher.”
“Nor is M. Gerard like—Monsieur Burgher.”
“Well, let us hope the husband and wife will get their two charges safely through. We shall reach Babillon’s, at any rate,” he said soon afterwards, as they came in sight of the house. “I pray we shall find better luck than last time.”
But they did not. The house was closed, and when they knocked and Babillon’s wife admitted them, it was to say that her husband had not been home all night.
“It’s not a serious matter,” said Pascal, making light of it, as he did of all difficulties. “Wait here, and I’ll go and find a couple of horses somewhere.”