Lissa’s blue eyes opened wide. “Would you not?” she asked blankly. “Do not your men beat their wives?”
“The saints forbid!” I said piously. “A French gentleman beat his wife? Nay, mademoiselle, never!”
She looked at me with curiosity, and then clapped her hands gleefully.
“Look you, monsieur, I will marry a Frenchman!” she cried. “Why, my uncle beat his wife six times a week—and thought it too little.”
I bit my lip. “Perhaps, he also beats his daughter,” I said furiously.
“He used to,” Vassalissa replied, and turned pale. “He is a dreadful man, monsieur, when he is angry, but you know we women must obey.”
I choked down my anger. “Tell me no more,” I said harshly, “or I may kill him—even if he is her father. But where is she? I must see my wife!”
A roguish look came back into the child’s face.
“She is safe, monsieur,” she said, “and she may see you, if we can manage it without his knowledge, but if he catches us,” she nodded her head at me like a little bird, “he will kill us all—everyone!”
“I will risk it,” I said joyfully; “but where and when?”