“I recall my words,” I said. “You have a chance, after all, down there in Bordeaux. And now I see that it is a thief that fears a spy.”
I pointed at the wench. She was dressed, ridiculously, inappropriately, in a silk gown of a past fashion, but rich in quality, and decorated with a collar of point-lace. Out of this her dirty countenance, thatched with a villainous mop of hair, stuck grotesquely; and the skirt of the dress had been roughly caught up to disencumber her bare feet.
The man stamped on the ground.
“I do not fear you!” he cried furiously, “and I am no thief!”
I laughed derisively.
“But it is true!” he shouted. “A young lady we met in the woods of Coutras would exchange it for Nannette’s jupon; and why the devil should we deny her?”
My heart gave a sudden swerve.
“What was she like, this lady?” I said.
The fellow glanced sulkily askance at me.
“Does not the spy know?” he said.