Théroigne rose, breathing a little quickly, her bent forefinger to her lips.
“Nicette!” she cried faintly.
“I must say it, Théroigne. This club—this thin dust thrown into the eyes of Méricourt——”
The other went hurriedly to the door.
“I had better go,” she said; “I cannot listen and not cry. Not now, Nicette, not now! I have no strength—I think the Englishman has left a blight upon the place!”
Her footsteps retreated down the garden path—died away. Nicette, listening, with a line sprung between her eyes, came swiftly from her bedroom. Close by the door of it—crept from his stool—Baptiste, his mouth agape, had been eavesdropping, it seemed. She seized him with a raging clinch of her fingers.
“Little detestable coward!” she cried, in a suppressed voice—“little sneak mouchard, to spy like a woman! How have I deserved to be for ever burdened with this millstone?”
“You hurt me!” whimpered the child, struggling to escape.
“Not so much as the black dogs will, when they come out of the well in the yard to carry you to the fire. Little beast, I have a mind to call them now.”
“They might take you instead. I will assure them you are wicked too—that I heard you say so to monsieur the Englishman.”