"

"Oh, I hope so, madame. Monsieur the American is lucky."

The American? Somehow the blood swept hotly into Jacqueline's cheeks.
"Say they will _not_ save him, Berthe. Say no, no, no!" she
commanded, and imperiously stamped her foot, but stamp as she would, her
furious shame was there still, flaunting its glorious color. She was
thinking of her letter, of her avowal to a doomed man. After that,
_any_ man was under obligations to get himself shot. Only, this one
was of a contrary fibre.

In such an April mood, Jacqueline was capable of yet another caprice.
"Berthe," she cried, even as the whim came, "one is tired after playing
the goose, n'est-ce pas? Do you, then, rest--yes, yes, while I comb your
hair."

"Madame!" Berthe protested with what breath astonishment left her.

"Do ye call me chief?" demanded the mistress. "Then, de grace, sit
still! And why shouldn't I, parbleu? If it took our big French
Revolution to throw me up an ancestor out of the common kettle, there
has just now been another revolution here"--she pressed a hand against
her breast--"to stir me back among the people again. Do you know, dear,
that your hair is beautiful!"

And so they were two girls, girl-like, passing the evening together.

Of a sudden Jacqueline stopped, the braiding arrested by a most
startling thought.

"Grands dieux," she told herself slowly, for it had to be believed,
however improbable, "until this very moment I've never once stopped to
think of all the emotions I have been having this day. I've never once
examined them, and such emotions--Oh, la, la, they're a collection, a
veritable museum of creeps! And here I've hurried through that museum,
till I've even forgotten my umbrella at the check stand!"

CHAPTER XXVIII

MIKE

"Quand on est aime d'une belle femme, on se tire toujours d'affaire."
--_Zoroaster, vide Voltaire_

The Storm Centre chafed under a mad desire to verify his name, which was
not unusual. But it was the first time he had ever craved active danger
as an antidote for his thoughts. The sound of bars lifting came as a
relief, and he shook off the dark mood and was himself. Before the door
opened, he thrust her letter into the candle flame. He had kept it till
the last minute, but now he burned it, as she knew he would.

Instead of executioners, he beheld a tray, gripped by chocolate hands.
Involuntarily he looked up to the face above the tray.