“I found my wife crying when I went home,” he said. “She was offended and annoyed. I took this little muslin rag away from her, and gave her my big ‘mooshawr’ you call it, don’t you?”
“No,” said Eugene; “it will be a lettre de cachet in this case. Virtue Ann,” he went on, addressing the maid who stood gaping at them in the doorway, “will you put together in a bag some things for me. It is necessary that I accompany this gentleman to—you did not mention the name of the prison,” and he turned to the sergeant.
“To the Bastille,” said the sergeant, grinning delightedly at the opportunity of showing a little knowledge of French history.
“To the Bastille,” repeated Eugene. “So be it. As a prisoner has no longer rights, will you arrange for the furniture of these rooms to be sold, and some money paid to my servant?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant again saluting him.
Eugene went to a desk in the corner of the room, and took out some photographs and private papers, also a miniature portrait of his grandfather, which he put into a black bag that Virtue Ann brought in and laid on the table.
At last he announced himself ready; and the sergeant, who had stood by the door during the preparations made for departure, stepped forward, and took the bag in his hand.
Virtue Ann began to fidget miserably with her apron, while Eugene looked at her with an unmoved face.
“I can’t let you go, pretty little dear,” she said at last, standing in front of him, and affectionately smoothing his shoulder with her rough hand.
“I beg that you will compose yourself,” said Eugene coolly.