"The Lady of the Lake," he murmured. "I have called her many things good and bad in my time, but never that. You are a genius, my little Asticot."
He finished his wine slowly, holding the bowl in both hands. The moon smiled at us in a friendly way, sailing high over the mountains. There entered my head the novel reflection that he was smiling on all men alike, the good and the bad, the just and the unjust. He was smiling just the same on Joanna's beaky-nosed husband.
Her husband! Something caught at my heart. Did Paragot know? I debated anxiously in my mind whether I should impart the disastrous information. If he knew that she was a married woman he would put foolish thoughts out of his head, for it was only in Merovingian and such like romantic epochs that men loved other men's wives. I touched him timidly on the arm.
"Master,—I overheard something else."
"Did you?"
"She is married, and that is her husband."
"Did he take off his hat?"
"No, Master."
"He is a scaly-headed vulture," said Paragot dreamily.
"He only gave me five sous," said I, relieved and yet disappointed at finding that my disclosure produced no agitation.