“Off with your coat, m’sieu’,” said Voban, whipping out his shears, tossing his cap aside, and rolling down his apron. “M’sieu’ is here.”
I had off my coat, was in a chair in a twinkling, and he was clipping softly at me as Doltaire’s hand turned the handle of the door.
“Beware—to-night!” Voban whispered.
“Come to me in the prison,” said I. “Remember your brother!”
His lips twitched. “M’sieu’, I will if I can.” This he said in my ear as Doltaire entered and came forward.
“Upon my life!” Doltaire broke out. “These English gallants! They go to prison curled and musked by Voban. VOBAN—a name from the court of the King, and it garnishes a barber. Who called you, Voban?”
“My mother, with the cure’s help, m’sieu’.”
Doltaire paused, with a pinch of snuff at his nose, and replied lazily, “I did not say ‘Who called you VOBAN?’ Voban, but who called you here, Voban?”
I spoke up testily then of purpose: “What would you have, monsieur? The citadel has better butchers than barbers. I sent for him.”
He shrugged his shoulders and came over to Voban. “Turn round, my Voban,” he said. “Voban—and such a figure! a knee, a back like that!”