"Bring me my clothes, monsieur."
"Er—wha-at? clothes?" he stammered.
"I said clothes,—on the bed there. Lay them out on the couch, please."
He found her simple wardrobe of the previous day on the bed—the skirt, the little bolero, the hat with the feather—and laid them out on the couch one by one with mock care and ceremony.
"There!"
"Shake them out, monsieur."
"Yes, your Highness."
She was putting away the last breakfast things when she heard an exclamation.
"Red!" said he. "And beard, too, as I'm a sinner!"
He had found a tuft of red beard twisted in the fastening of the bolero. The expression on his face would have defied words. As for Mlle. Fouchette, she was for a moment of the same color of the telltale hair. For some reason she did not wish Jean to know of her part in the riot. At the same time she was angry with herself for the womanly feeling of delicacy that surged into her cheeks.