"He is going after all!"
"Wait!" Croisette answered drily.
But I was right. We had not to wait long. He WAS going. In
another moment he came out himself, riding a strong iron-grey
horse: and we could see that he had holsters to his saddle. His
steward was running beside him, to take I suppose his last
orders. A cripple, whom the bustle had attracted from his usual
haunt, the church porch, held up his hand for alms. The Vidame
as he passed, cut him savagely across the face with his whip, and
cursed him audibly.
"May the devil take him!" exclaimed Croisette in just rage. But
I said nothing, remembering that the cripple was a particular pet
of Catherine's. I thought instead of an occasion, not so very
long ago, when the Vicomte being at home, we had had a great
hawking party. Bezers and Catherine had ridden up the street
together, and Catherine giving the cripple a piece of money,
Bezers had flung to him all his share of the game. And my heart
sank.
Only for a moment, however. The man was gone; or was going at
any rate.
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