“Colonel Dupin?” Jacqueline repeated with a wry mouth. Dupin, the Contra-Guerrilla chief, was a brave Frenchman. 24But the quality of his mercy had made his name a shudder on the lips of all men, his own countrymen included.
“Yes,” said Fra Diavolo between his teeth, “Mi Coronel Dupin–the Tiger.”
“So he is called, I know,” said Jacqueline. “And you, it appears, are Captain Maurel–Maurel, but that is French?”
“The way it is spelled on the paper, yes. But my Coronel, being French, made a mistake. He should have written it ‘Morel.’”
“No matter,” said Jacqueline, “for you are only a trite, conventional officer, after all. But how much merrier it would be if you were–were––” and suddenly she leaned over the paper and placed an impetuous finger on the bandit’s name. “So,” she continued wistfully, “there is no danger. We ride, we take a stage. It is tame. I say it is tame, monsieur!”
Captain Maurel, or Morel, desired to add that there was a trader who owned an hacienda in the interior, and that this trader was starting for his plantation the very next morning; all of which was very convenient, because the trader had extra horses, and he, Captain Morel, had a certain influence with the trader. The señorita’s party could travel with his friend’s caravan as far as the stage.
“Voilá!” cried Jacqueline. “It is arranged!”
“Diable, it is not!” Michel was on his feet again.
His wayward charge looked him over reflectively. “Our Mars in his baby clothes again,” said she, as a fond, despairing mother with an incorrigible child.
The Mexican had shown himself hostile and ready. But seeing Jacqueline’s coolness he melted out of his somewhat theatrical bristling, lest her sarcasm veer toward himself.