“No, madame.”
“Of course not. Oh, she is cunning, your Madame la Maréchale!”
Alas for Jacqueline! She might conquer herself, but add to herself a second woman against her, and she was beaten. She confessed defeat by throwing off the cloak.
“Tuxtla is far, you think they will–will––”
“Oh I think they will, madame!”
“Say you know they will! Say it, Berthe, say it!”
“Oh, I hope so, madame. Monsieur the American is lucky.”
The American? Somehow the blood swept hotly into Jacqueline’s cheeks. “Say they will not save him, Berthe. Say no, no, no!” she commanded, and imperiously stamped her foot, but stamp as she would, her furious shame was there still, flaunting its glorious color. She was thinking of her letter, of her avowal to a doomed man. After that, any man was under obligations to get himself shot. Only, this one was of a contrary fibre.
In such an April mood, Jacqueline was capable of yet another caprice. “Berthe,” she cried, even as the whim came, “one is tired after playing the goose, n’est-ce pas? Do you, then, rest–yes, yes, while I comb your hair.”
“Madame!” Berthe protested with what breath astonishment left her.