“Now then,” reflected the beaming young Gaul, “our spirituelle little marquise will find that one may have wits, and not read her dense old poets, either.”
He opened the café door for her and both joined the maid Berthe, who was still clinging to sanctuary inside.
The American lieutenant-colonel and the Mexican capitan looked at one another. They felt deserted. Fra Diavolo’s teeth bared. “Ai, que mal educados,” he observed. “They’re ill-bred, I say. They kick a gentleman in the stomach–in the stomach, señor!”
Driscoll turned to go. It was enough of satisfaction to reflect that, if any mention of the affair reached Maximilian, his own part therein would not injure his errand to Mexico. As for the rest, Mexicans and French could go their own ways–he had amused himself. “Well, adios, captain,” he said, and swung on his heel.
“Wait! Which direction, señor?”
“To this mesón here, around the corner.”
“If Your Mercy is not in a hurry––”
Driscoll nodded, and the capitan stopped to say a few words to two of his vagabonds. One of these immediately hurried off in the direction of the river. The other was still loafing outside the café when his chief rejoined Driscoll.
“Looks like you were interested in His Resplendent Majesty,” Fra Diavolo began with weighty lightsomeness. “Mustn’t hurt his feelings, eh, caballero?”
Driscoll laughed easily, “It was all on the girl’s account,” he said.