“Yes, yes,” said I, “one must be well appointed in soul and body when one sups with his Excellency and Monsieur Doltaire.”
“Limed inside and chalked outside,” he retorted gleefully. “But M’sieu’ Doltaire needs no lime, for he has no soul. No, by Sainte Helois! The good God didn’t make him. The devil laughed, and that laugh grew into M’sieu’ Doltaire. But brave!--no kicking pulse is in his body.”
“You will send for Voban--now?” I asked softly.
He was leaning against the door as he spoke. He reached and put the tumbler on a shelf, then turned and opened the door, his face all altered to a grimness.
“Attend here, Labrouk!” he called; and on the soldier coming, he blurted out in scorn, “Here’s this English captain can’t go to supper without Voban’s shears to snip him. Go fetch him, for I’d rather hear a calf in a barn-yard than this whing-whanging for ‘M’sieu’ Voban!’”
He mocked my accent in the last two words, so that the soldier grinned, and at once started away. Then he shut the door, and turned to me again, and said more seriously, “How long have we before Monsieur comes?”--meaning Doltaire.
“Good,” he rejoined, and then he smoked while I sat thinking.
It was near an hour before we heard footsteps outside; then came a knock, and Voban was shown in.
“Quick, m’sieu’,” he said. “M’sieu’ is almost at our heels.”
“This letter,” said I, “to Mademoiselle Duvarney,” and I handed four: hers, and those to Governor Dinwiddie, to Mr. Washington, and to my partner.
He quickly put them in his coat, nodding. The soldier--I have not yet mentioned his name--Gabord, did not know that more than one passed into Voban’s hands.
“Off with your coat, m’sieu’,” said Voban, whipping out his shears, tossing his cap aside, and rolling down his apron. “M’sieu’ is here.”
I had off my coat, was in a chair in a twinkling, and he was clipping softly at me as Doltaire’s hand turned the handle of the door.
“Come to me in the prison,” said I. “Remember your brother!”
His lips twitched. “M’sieu’, I will if I can.” This he said in my ear as Doltaire entered and came forward.
“Upon my life!” Doltaire broke out. “These English gallants! They go to prison curled and musked by Voban. VOBAN--a name from the court of the King, and it garnishes a barber. Who called you, Voban?”