“If you have not deceived me,” she said to Jacqueline, “I promise you a hundred crowns in gold.”
“Behold, madame,” said the woman, “the poor angel is confiding—here is all his treasure.”
As she spoke, Jacqueline opened a drawer in the table and showed some parchments.
“God of mercy!” cried the Countess, snatching up a document that caught her eye, on which she read, Gothofredus Comes Gantiacus (Godefroid, Count of Ghent).
She dropped the parchment, and passed her hand over her brow; then, feeling, no doubt, that she had compromised herself by showing so much emotion, she recovered her cold demeanor.
“I am satisfied,” said she.
She went downstairs and out of the house. The constable and his wife stood in their doorway, and saw her take the path to the landing-place.
A boat was moored hard by. When the rustle of the Countess’ approach was audible, a boatman suddenly stood up, helped the fair laundress to take her seat in it, and rowed with such strength as to make the boat fly like a swallow down the stream.
“You are a sorry fellow,” said Jacqueline, giving the officer’s shoulder a familiar slap. “We have earned a hundred gold crowns this morning.”
“I like harboring lords no better than harboring wizards. And I know not, of the two, which is the more like to bring us to the gallows,” replied Tirechair, taking up his halbert. “I will go my rounds over by Champfleuri; God protect us, and send me to meet some pert jade out in her bravery of gold rings to glitter in the shade like a glow-worm!”