I began to get more light.
“She was shut up at Chateau Bigot—hand of iron and lock of steel—who knows the rest! But Voban was for always,” he added presently.
The thing was clear. The Scarlet Woman was Mathilde. So here was the end of Voban’s little romance—of the fine linen from Ste. Anne de Beaupre and the silver pitcher for the wedding wine. I saw, or felt, that in Voban I might find now a confederate, if I put my hard case on Bigot’s shoulders.
“I can’t see why she stayed with Bigot,” I said tentatively.
“Break the dog’s leg, it can’t go hunting bones—mais, non! Holy, how stupid are you English!”
“Why doesn’t the Intendant lock her up now? She’s dangerous to him. You remember what she said?”
“Tonnerre, you shall see to-morrow,” he answered; “now all the sheep go bleating with the bell. Bigot—Bigot—Bigot—there is nothing but Bigot! But, pish! Vaudreuil the Governor is the great man, and Montcalm, aho! son of Mahomet! You shall see. Now they dance to Bigot’s whistling; he will lock her safe enough to-morrow, ‘less some one steps in to help her. Before to-night she never spoke of him before the world—but a poor daft thing, going about all sad and wild. She missed her chance to-night—aho!”
“Why are you not with Montcalm’s soldiers?” I asked. “You like him better.”
“I was with him, but my time was out, and I left him for Bigot. Pish! I left him for Bigot, for the militia!” He raised his thumb to his nose, and spread out his fingers. Again light dawned on me. He was still with the Governor in all fact, though soldiering for Bigot—a sort of watch upon the Intendant.
I saw my chance. If I could but induce this fellow to fetch me Voban! There was yet an hour before I was to go to the intendance.