The very day after her arrival she called to see her dear friend, now Madame la Maréchale. The two women were hardly more than girls, but who shall fathom the depth of their guile? They kissed each other affectionately on the cheek, and while the marshal was in the other room, reading the packet Jacqueline had brought him from Napoleon, they expressed earnestly their joy at meeting again.
When Bazaine returned, madame rose to leave them to their “stupid state affairs.” The marshal smiled, knowing how ravenous was his bride for the same stupid affairs of state, but Jacqueline agreed that indeed they were wearisome. Of course she might tell His Excellency much about Paris, but as to politics–and her little shrug bespoke a Sahara of ignorance.
In the packet delivered by Jacqueline, the Sphinx had by no means turned oracle, and Bazaine wished to know what 239his crafty master would have said between the lines. But the first topic of their conference was Driscoll.
“Your prisoner is incommunicado then?” said she.
“Have no fears, he is comfortable, here in this very house?”
“He has sent no word to Maximilian of his arrival?”
“Not as yet, mademoiselle.”
“And why not, pray?”
“Because I anticipated the honor of seeing you before permitting him so much. I must know the campaign better. A plain soldier is dense at guessing, mademoiselle, while you–you have talked with Napoleon. If––”
“Oh, don’t be tedious. You alone hold the knight that means royalty triumphant or checkmated, and you know that you do.”