The curling petals swept on to the grass from the August roses.
“We failed,” said Madame Lavalette.
“Mon Dieu, yes! but St. Croix is not alive to tell tales—he was safely shot by the Dutch soldiers as he strove to escape. Sir Edward Seymour told me—he had hardly cleared the camp himself.”
“There is Tichelaer.”
“He has chosen his part——”
The Duchess interrupted impatiently—
“What part does he play?”
“He wishes to please the mob and ruin the de Witts—why not?—an obscure ruffian!”
“But he knows something.”
De Pomponne shrugged.