"I'm not sure," said Piquette.
"We'll take no chances. And when this business is finished, if Monsieur de Vautrin doesn't do his duty by you I'd like to take you away from Paris, Piquette."
"Where, mon Jeem?"
He shrugged. "To America. Where else?"
But she shook her head like a solemn child.
"No, mon petit. You will not wish to be taking me to America. One cannot change one's destiny like dat. You s'all not 'ang me like a millstone aroun' your neck. My place is 'ere, in Paris, where I am born, an' if de bon Dieu will, where I s'all die. As for you, mon ami, all will be well. De vrai gamine is born wit' de what you call—secon' sight. It is I, Piquette, who say dis to you."
He glanced at her curiously, aware of an air of fatalism in her words and manner.
"How, Piquette?" he laughed.
She shrugged. "I doan know, but I believe you s'all be 'appy yet."
"With her, you mean?" he asked. "Not a chance, Piquette. That's done. But if I can help her——"