Then M'sieu' Doltaire
came, and said a man that could do a trick like that should live
to do another. And he did it, for M'sieu' Doltaire is gone to
the Bastile. Voyez, this Englishman is a damned heretic, and has
the wicked arts."
"But see, Bamboir, do you think he can cast spells?"
"What mean those sounds from his room?"
"So, so. But if he be a friend of the devil, La Jongleuse would
not come for him, but--"
Startled and excited, they grasped each other's arms. "But for
us--for us!"
"It would be a work of God to send him to the devil," said Bamboir
in a loud whisper. "He has given us trouble enough. Who can tell
what comes next? Those damned noises in his room, eh--eh?"
Then they whispered together, and presently I caught a fragment,
by which I understood that, as we walked near the edge of the
cliff, I should be pushed over, and they would make it appear
that I had drowned myself.
They talked in low tones again, but soon got louder, and presently
I knew that they were speaking of La Jongleuse; and Bamboir--the
fat Bamboir, who the surgeon had said would some day die of
apoplexy--was rash enough to say that he had seen her. He
described her accurately, with the spirit of the born raconteur:
"Hair so black as the feather in the Governor's hat, and green
eyes that flash fire, and a brown face with skin all scales.
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