To the soldier on duty,
whom I did not notice at first, I now offered a pipe and a glass
of wine, which he accepted rather gruffly, but enjoyed, if I might
judge by his devotion to them.
By-and-bye, without any relevancy at all, he said abruptly, "If a
little sooner she had come--aho!"
For a moment I could not think what he meant; but soon I saw.
"The palace would have been burnt if the girl in scarlet had come
sooner--eh?" I asked. "She would have urged the people on?"
"And Bigot burnt, too, maybe," he answered.
"Fire and death--eh?"
I offered him another pipeful of tobacco. He looked doubtful,
but accepted.
"Aho! And that Voban, he would have had his hand in," he growled.
I began to get more light.
"She was shut up at Chateau Bigot--hand of iron and lock of
steel--who knows the rest! But Voban was for always," he added
presently.
The thing was clear. The Scarlet Woman was Mathilde. So here was the
end of Voban's little romance--of the fine linen from Ste. Anne de
Beaupre and the silver pitcher for the wedding wine. I saw, or felt,
that in Voban I might find now a confederate, if I put my hard case
on Bigot's shoulders.
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