He took a gold snuff-box from his pocket and spilled the snuff upon his white breeches and his once fine vest. Exertion had brought drops of sweat to his forehead. He regarded the little English girl as some treasure of the forest sent by providence to reward him. She, in turn, was amused by his candour, and glad to hear a friendly voice.
“Good-day, Monsieur Picard—and what makes you think that I am riding to church?” she asked.
He dusted the snuff from his coat, and settled himself in the saddle, as though his way was, from that time, her way.
“There are two roads, Madame,” he said with a flourish of his arm, “to church and to Berlin. As you are not upon the latter, there can only be the former. And you are wise. All France goes the other way—”
His eccentricity always pleased her.
“And you, yourself, Monsieur, you are on the same road?”
“Impossible to take any other when Madame Lefort rides. I shall go to the church door. It will be an example to the people!”
“But if I am not going to church—”
“In that case there will be no example. We shall talk of Paris and the army.”