“In a hard school, Caron,” answered the Captain soberly. “Aye, name of a name, in a monstrous hard school.”
He turned from the window, and the light of the tapers falling on his face, showed it heavily scored with lines of pain, testifying to the ugly memories which the Deputy's light words had evoked. Then suddenly he laughed, half-bitterly, half humourously.
“La, la!” said he. “The thing's past. Charlot Tardivet the bridegroom of Bellecour and Captain Charlot of Dumouriez' army are different men-very different.”
He strode back to the table, filled his goblet, and gulped down the wine. Then he crossed to the fire and stood with his back to La Boulaye for a spell. When next he faced his companion all signs of emotion had cleared from his countenance. It was again the callous, reckless face of Captain Charlot, rendered a trifle more reckless and a trifle more callous by the wine-flush on his cheeks and the wine-glitter in his eye.
“Caron” said he, with a half-smile, “shall we have these ladies in to supper?”
“God forbid!” ejaculated La Boulaye.
“Nay, but I will,” the other insisted, and he moved across to the window.
As he passed him, La Boulaye laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“Not that, Charlot,” he begged impressively, his dark face very set. “Plunder them, turn them destitute upon the world, if you will, but remember, at least, that they are women.”
Charlot laughed in his face.