“Yes, I know, Monsieur le Coronel, suspicion with you is quite enough. But,” she went on in contempt and feigned surprise at his dullness, “this rage of yours at being outwitted by Rodrigo Galán blinds you to something else.–Pardon, 126monsieur, a Frenchman does not jostle a woman.–Thank you.”
“But the jostling by a woman’s tongue, mademoiselle.–Well, what is it? Have mercy, be brief, since I am not even to breathe while my lady talks.”
“I was thinking, dear monsieur, of the feelings of an artist, to which you are very, very blind.”
“Feelings, artist? Name of a name, mademoiselle!”
“Precisely, Maximilian’s feelings. You know how he abhors the sight of blood. Ma foi, and I agree with him.”
“Go it, Miss Jack-leen!” Driscoll abetted her. Never a word of their French did he understand, but he knew that she had a power of speech. Dupin evidently knew it better yet, for though he laughed, he did not laugh easily.
“Never fear,” he said, “His Majesty’s delicate prejudices are safe. It will be all underground before he comes, and no muss at all.”
“But you forget,” Jacqueline cried testily, “you forget the imagination of a poet.”
“And he will imagine––”
“Yes, because I shall tell him.”