–Sienkiewicz.
The same evening, though two hours later, a public hack entered an outlying quarter of the City of Mexico called San Cosme, and drew up before a white mansion with beautiful gardens. A young girl with soft brown hair and gentle eyes got out, ran to the door, and brought down the ponderous knocker so terrifically that it abashed her, for all her present agitation. To the flunkey, who noted the public hack and was reproachful, she said, “I must see His Excellency. Here, I have written my name on Mademoiselle d’Aumerle’s card. I am her maid. Say to Monsieur le Maréchal that he will regret it, if I do not see him at once. Quick now, you!”
If possessed of guile, Berthe could not have done better. With Jacqueline’s card, used only because it had a blank side, her admittance was certain and immediate.
She passed the lackey into a luxurious apartment, Marshal Bazaine’s private cabinet. At one end there was a Japanese screen with a lamp behind, and at intervals came the sound of someone turning the leaves of a book. But Berthe thought solely of her errand. The marshal, thick necked, heavy cheeked and stocky, was standing, waiting for her.
“So,” he exclaimed, “milady is arrived, eh, and you bring me her commands?”
“No, Your Excellency, my mistress does not know that I am here. When she learns, she will dismiss me. I––”
220The marshal of France grew cold. “It was a decoy then, the card you used?” he interrupted. “And was that one also, young woman, when you threatened that I should regret––”
“You will indeed regret, monsieur, if you do not let me speak. There’s a mistake to correct if–if it’s not too late.”
The chief of the Army of Occupation shrugged his shoulders until the back of his neck folded over itself. He had been correcting mistakes ever since Maximilian’s landing. But he was a child of the people himself, and the distress in her eyes made him patient. “Well, what is it?” he asked.
“It is an American. They will shoot him, monsieur!”