“H’m’m–oh no! Only it’s curious how he gets mixed up in this shindy of ours.”
“If–if you are asking about Maximilian, señor,” a heavy voice began. Fra Diavolo at least was not indifferent to the American’s questioning, and now he explained that the lady was the Marquesa d’Aumerle, and that she was on her way from Paris to the Mexican court. But a storm having brought her to Tampico, she wished to finish her journey overland. He, the Capitan Morel of His Majesty’s Contra Guerrillas, had offered her escort for the trip. But the French caballero had presumed to force her to continue by water.
“By water?” Driscoll repeated, glaring at Ney. “That poor little girl!–And make her sick again!”
Jacqueline’s chin tilted. “Ma foi, monsieur, I was not sick.”
Driscoll noted her fragile dainty person, and recalling his own experience, had grave doubts about the consistency of Nature. But this was apart. There was still the mystery of his having blundered into a business that somehow concerned the Emperor of Mexico. And it was a matter that must be set right.
“You say you are an officer,” he demanded of the ranchero, “but your Greaser clothes, that’s not a uniform?”
Uniforms were not necessarily a part of the contra-guerrilla service, said the Mexican; and besides, there might be reasons for a disguise. But as to his own identity, he reproduced the order signed by Colonel Dupin.
“Correct,” said Driscoll, and handed back the paper.
50“Now then,” he added to Ney, “what do you say for yourself?”
Unconsciously the French soldier replied as to a superior officer. “I’ve just been transferred to the service of His Excellency, Marshal Bazaine, in the City of Mexico, and am on my way there now.”