“Sweetheart, the bed-time.”
“I know—I’m going, Angelique; my uncle sent me from him to-night. It was the first time in all my life that I remember.”
“Maybe, little stupid, because you’ve never waited for that, before, but were quick enough to see whenever you were not wanted.”
“He—there’s something wrong, and Adrian is the cause of it. I—Angelique, you tell me—uncle did not hear, or reply, any way—where is my father buried?”
Angelique was prepared and had her answer ready.
“’Tis not for the servant to reveal what her master hides. No—all will come to you in good time. Tarry the master’s will. But, that silly Pierre! What think you? Is it fifty dollar would be the price of they tame blue herons? Hey?”
“No; nor fifty times fifty. Pierre knows that. Love is more than money.”
“Sometimes, to some folks. Well, what would you? That son will be havin’ even me, his old mother, in his show—why not? As a cur’osity—the only livin’ human bein’ can make that ingrate mind. Yes—to bed, ma p’tite.”
Margot rose and housed her pets. This threat of Pierre’s, that he would eventually carry off the foresters and exhibit their helplessness to staring crowds, always roused her fiercest indignation; and this result was just what Angelique wanted, at present, and she murmured her satisfaction.
“Good! That bee will buzz in her ear till she sleeps, and so sound she’ll hear no dip of the paddle, by and by. Here, Pierre, my son, you’re wanted.”