“Yes.”
“Strike!” he cried; “take my friendship if you want it, on this condition—what I am is my own concern, not yours. Don’t interfere, m’sieu; it would be useless. I should never betray you, but I might kill you. Don’t interfere. But if you care for the good-will of a man like me, take it; and when you desire a service 199 from me, tell me, and I’ll not fail you, by Sainte-Éline of Paradise!”
“Strike palms,” said I, gravely; and we struck palms thrice.
He turned on his heel, kicking off his sabots on the doorsill. “Break bread with me; I ask it,” he said, gruffly, and stalked before me into the house.
The room was massive and of noble proportion, but there was scarcely anything in it—a stained table, a settle, a little pile of rags on the stone floor—no, not rags, but Jacqueline’s clothes!—and there at the end of the great chamber, built into the wall, was the ancient Breton bed with its Gothic carving and sliding panels of black oak, carved like the lattice-work in a chapel screen.
Outside dawn was breaking through a silver shoal of clouds; already its slender tentacles of light were probing the shadows behind the lattice where Jacqueline lay sleeping.
From the ashes on the hearth a spiral of smoke curled. The yellow cat walked in and sat down, contemplating the ashes.
Slowly a saffron light filled the room; Jacqueline awoke in the dim bed.
She pushed the panels aside and peered out, her sea-blue eyes heavy with slumber.
“Ma doué!” she murmured; “it is M’sieu Scarlett! Aie! Aie! Am I a countess to sleep so late? Bonjour, m’sieu! Bonjour, pa-pa!” She caught sight of the yellow cat, “Et bien le bonjour, Ange Pitou!”