“Your power seems to have stopped there,” remarked Corentin; “the fears of your ci-devant are greater than the love you inspire.”
“You judge him by yourself,” she replied, with a contemptuous look.
“Well, then,” said he, unmoved, “why did you not bring him here to your own house?”
“Commandant,” she said to Hulot, with a coaxing smile, “if he really loves me, would you blame me for saving his life and getting him to leave France?”
The old soldier came quickly up to her, took her hand, and kissed it with a sort of enthusiasm. Then he looked at her fixedly and said in a gloomy tone: “You forget my two friends and my sixty-three men.”
“Ah, commandant,” she cried, with all the naivete of passion, “he was not accountable for that; he was deceived by a bad woman, Charette’s mistress, who would, I do believe, drink the blood of the Blues.”
“Come, Marie,” said Corentin, “don’t tease the commandant; he does not understand such jokes.”
“Hold your tongue,” she answered, “and remember that the day when you displease me too much will have no morrow for you.”
“I see, mademoiselle,” said Hulot, without bitterness, “that I must prepare for a fight.”
“You are not strong enough, my dear colonel. I saw more than six thousand men at Saint-James,—regular troops, artillery, and English officers. But they cannot do much unless he leads them? I agree with Fouche, his presence is the head and front of everything.”