"C'est la grande vie, Monsieur l'Americain," she said with an expressive gesture. "You remember perhaps what Monsieur Valcourt 'as said. I am still de vrai gamine. I know dat vilain Pochard since I am so high."
"But why have you done this for me, Piquette? When you found out that I was not my brother——"
"Oh, la, la! Who can tell? Perhaps I like' you a little de night in Javet's. De thought of de adventure—perhaps, but more dat Tricot and Le Singe Anglais—dey would 'ave t'rown you in de river, Monsieur."
"You saved my life——"
"Yes. You see, Monsieur—Monsieur," she paused in search of a name.
"My name is Jim Horton."
"Jeem! C'est bon ça. Jeem 'Orton, dere wasn' anyt'ing else for me to do. You were a good Americain—who 'ad fought at La Boissière for France and for me. An' he had not. It could not be dat you should die. But dere are many t'ings I do not yet on'erstand. If you would tell me——?"
Jim Horton was silent a moment, thinking deeply.
"You were a friend of my brother's."
He put it more in the form of a statement than a question.