The turnkey went to the door. “I reckon he’s all right now, ma’am. You got half an hour. If he gets rough just holler and we’ll settle him.”
“Is the charge serious?” asked Solange.
“It ought to be. He’s a sure-enough hard case. But a fine and six months on the rocks is about all he’ll get.”
De Launay looked up sullenly. The turnkey made a derisive, threatening motion and, grinning, slammed the door behind him, locking it.
De Launay licked his dry lips. There was a pitcher of water on a stand and he seized it, almost draining it as he gulped the lukewarm stuff down his sizzling throat.
It strengthened and revived him. He got up from the bed and stood aside. Solange stood like a statue, but her eyes scorched him through her veil.
“So this is what a general of France has come to,” she said. Words and tone burned him like fire. 134 He said nothing, but motioned to the bed as the only seat in the cell.
He picked up the hat, the battered thing that had brought on this disaster, from the floor and, stooping, felt the sharp throb of his half-fractured skull. His weakened nerves reacted sharply, and he uttered a half-suppressed cry, raising his hand to the lump on his cranium.
Solange started. “They have hurt you?” she said, sharply.
De Launay took hold of himself again.