“Let your drums beat a rally, Citizen-captain,” he commanded briskly. “We leave Bellecour in ten minutes.”.
And indeed, in less than that time the blue-coats were swinging briskly down the avenue. In the rear rode La Boulaye, his cloak wrapped about him, his square chin buried in his neck-cloth, and his mind deep in meditation.
From a window of the Chateau the lady who was the cause of the young Revolutionist's mental absorption watched the departing soldiers. On either side of her stood Ombreval and her father.
“My faith, little one,” said Bellecour good-humouredly. “I wonder what magic you have exercised to rid us of that infernal company.”
“Women have sometimes a power of which men know nothing,” was her cryptic answer.
Ombreval turned to her with a scowl of sudden suspicion.
“I trust, Mademoiselle, that you did not—” he stopped short. His thoughts were of a quality that defied polite utterance.
“That I did not what, Monsieur?” she asked.
“I trust you remembered that you are to become the Vicomtesse d'Ombreval” he answered, constructing his sentence differently.
“Monsieur!” exclaimed Bellecour angrily.