“Where?”
“Where? Why, behind the ear, just on that little soft, white place one has above the neck.”
“But, sapristi! I am not asking you where your uncle Jean kissed her. I ask where they both were when you heard what you pretend they said.”
“That’s different,” condescended Piotr, with immense dignity. “They were in Aunt Tatiana’s dressing-room. I was under the dressing-table that’s got petticoats of gauze and an underskirt of pink satin. They say it’s a Duchess table, so I think that’s why Aunt Tatiana’s got one.”
“But in the name of all the Saints of Paradise what were you doing under the dressing-table, and what did you hear, or rather mis-hear?”
“I was hiding a mouse from the stable to frighten Marie when she found it.” And, seeing the abbé’s eyes seek Heaven in silent protest, Piotr continued: “You’re going to say it was not chivalrous like Bayard or the old Du Guesclin little darling Malou’s so fond of, but Marie’s such a coward and I wanted to hear her cry: ‘Oh! M’ame la Duchesse—une souris! L’affreuse bête! Elle va me mordre!’”
“Now look here, Piotr,” the abbé said with enforced resignation, “let Marie and the mouse be for a minute, and admit that you did not hear a word of what you think you heard.”
“But I did hear, Uncle Pierre, I did! I did! I did! Aunt Tatiana had been crying—at least I think she must have been, because her eyes looked bright as my blue marbles, and Uncle Jean said to her in Russian, ‘Don’t be silly, doushka,’ and then he kissed her; and she rubbed her nose on his coat and said, ‘It’s dreadful, Jeannot. If Basil arrives now, what shall we do?’ and then Uncle Jean said, ‘He can’t arrive before forty-eight hours, and by that time the Sarcelle will be far out to sea!’ and then he dragged her to the balcony to make her look down at the yacht, and I ran away on all-fours so they couldn’t see me, and I went quick to Garrassime, who was awful angry with me for telling him. Now give me a ride on your shoulder, Uncle Pierre, all around the quadrangle, to reward me for telling you.”
“I’ll be hanged if I do!” was on the abbé’s lips, but Piotr was to be conciliated just then, and so he said instead: “I will give you a ride, but on condition that you promise to forget all this nonsense. Promise, Piotr, solemnly, that you will not say another word about it to any one. You misunderstood the whole thing, I assure you.”
Piotr shook his head twice from side to side. He was beginning to think that perhaps, after all, he had been mistaken, and yet not quite; but a ride on his uncle’s broad shoulder was tempting, so he suddenly held out his square little paw. “Tope-là!” he gravely proposed. “I’ll not speak to anybody about Papa’s coming, Uncle Pierre; but I can’t help knowing that he’s coming.”