"Thou misbegotten son of a toad!" he raved. "Where is the small box I bade you guard with your life? Where is it, I say. Thou—"
"I gave it into your hands," said Jacques sadly. "Into your hands, your very hands, in this room here by the door! I swear it."
"Swear it? What is it to me, your swear? I say I have not seen the box! At Dover, what did I do? Nom d'un nom, did I not say to you, lose thy head sooner than that box?" His voice rose higher and higher. "And now, where is it?"
"I tell you I gave it you! It is this bleak country that has warped your brain. Never did the box leave my hands until I gave it into yours!"
"And I say you did not! Saperlipopette, am I a fool that I should forget? Now listen to what you have done! You have lost the stockings of Monsieur! By your incalculable stupidity, the stupidity of a pig, an ass—"
"Sacré nom de Dieu! Am I to be disturbed by your shrieking?" Philip had flung down the haresfoot. He slewed round in his chair. "Shut the door! Is it that you wish to annoy my uncle that you shout and scream in his house?" His voice was thunderous.
François spread out his hands.
"M'sieur, I ask pardon! It is this âne, this careless gaillard—"
"Mais, m'sieur!" protested Jacques. "It is unjust; it is false!"
"Ecoutez donc, m'sieur!" begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. "It is the band-box that contains your stockings—the stockings aux oiseaux-mouches! Ah, would that I had carried it myself! Would that—"