The poor wretch struggled to express his gratitude and relief. In the midst, his voice trailed into incoherence, and ceased. Cartouche, looking at him, saw that he had topped the crisis and was asleep.
* * * * * * * *
Self-composed, an exquisite sans reproche, carrying, sword-like, a sort of sombre blitheness in his speech and mien, the Prefect of Faissigny descended to his duties on the morning succeeding that poignant interview. These were prefigured for him in the shape of a waiting chaise and postillions, bespoken overnight, and attending now in the street outside his windows; and, more intimately, in an early bird of domesticity, who was busying herself with the preparation of some worm-like sticks of bread, and the fastidiously-exacted proportions of a cup of chocolate and coffee. He greeted her with a half-remorseful, half-irritable allusion to her swollen eyes.
“My faith, girl! You look as if you had been fighting in your dreams, and got the worst of it.”
She faced on him bravely.
“And so I have, and so I have—been fighting with my thoughts, and got my punishment. Won’t you kiss them well, Cherry?”
“Put a blister to a blain, child! That would never do.”
She held up her sweet soft lips to him.
“Put it there, then, and show you’ve forgiven me.”
“Forgiven!” he cried cheerfully, and moved away. “I’ve nothing to forgive but a rogue to our compact. Come, bustle, girl, bustle! I must be off.”