“But you, naturally, my little friend, I may need you to speak English.”
“Where is the cart?” André asked.
“At Jacquard’s workshop, on his farm. I have told you about it on numerous occasions.”
André smiled. “Victor Lescot, Jacquard’s shop is right near the coast, where the fighting is. Who knows, there may be a battle going on in Jacquard’s own courtyard right now.”
Victor’s eyes flickered. “Ah, but I have a plan.”
“There is no sense to it.” André shrugged and got to his feet.
“No sense!” Victor cried, as though he were about to hurl a bolt of lightning. “You forget. The cart is mine. I paid for it yesterday.”
Again André could only shake his head.
“I’ll put this milk where it is cool,” he said, and started off with a pail in each hand.
Victor dived for the other pail and followed. “La Fumée, my mare that you have always been so fond of, you know,” he chattered, “she’s all harnessed and impatient to start off. You know how she loves adventure.”