"You were my guests," I insisted. "Hold me responsible if you wish."
"Hold you responsible!" he exclaimed. "But you are a foreigner—it would be a little awkward."
"It is my good Suzette," I continued, "that I am thinking of."
He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment again ran his hands thoughtfully over the bristles of his scarred head. He had a daughter of his own.
"The coffee," I said gently to my unhappy Suzette as she passed.
"Oui! Oui, monsieur," she sighed, then suddenly mustering up her courage, she gasped:
"Oh, mon général! Is it true, then, that Gaston must go to jail? Ah! Mon Dieu!"
"Eh bien, my girl! It will not kill him, Sapristi! He will be a better soldier for it."
"Be merciful," I pleaded.