She broke off there. But the intolerable stab brought Breagh to his feet. He snarled at her through his clenched teeth.
"He may know Breagh, the Englishman, but he doesn't know Jean Jacques Potier. Tell Madame that I shall wear her nephew's clothes and take his name, and do his work about the house and garden. All his duds are in the cupboard up in my room there, and his apron and clogs and so forth...."
Appalling triviality of the sex feminine. The conjured picture evoked a titter. She breathed, and he was stung with rage to know her shaken with irresistible mirth:
"But you do not know how to sweep and clean, and how can you conceal your very red and curly hair? French servant men have not such hair! You will be betrayed by it, Monsieur!..."
His blood boiled, and he thundered in a whisper:
"I shan't!... Call it what color you like to-night. It won't be there to-morrow! There are clippers in the cupboard, and I shall have it off."
A distant bell rang. She was gone like a bat in the darkness. His word was given. He was pledged now to follow her wherever fate should lead.
LXVI
Versailles, always a town of martial music. Royal or Imperial fanfares of brass, and welcoming salutes of deep-voiced cannon, had been—since a day early in October, when the girdle of iron and steel had closed about Paris—resonant with Prussian bugle calls and throbbing with Prussian drums.