Page:The Old Countess (1927).pdf/70

 'A warrior saint. Yes. She sounds a terrifying young person,' said Graham, still laughing and handing Jill her cleverly separated orange. 'Though I'm glad, too, that she struck the curé. I remember him. A fat old scoundrel; bloated with sacramental wine and wafers. But I'm afraid your heroine is a little détraquée, Jill. Monsieur Michon evidently thinks so.'

'Monsieur Michon would think Joan of Arc détraquée. I can't bear Monsieur Michon.'

'He's the same type as the curé, isn't he;—only gone into another business; dans la libre pensée, as he would put it. I hope the curé had an umbrella while he fought,' said Graham, still amused by the thought of the combat. 'That would complete the picture. One of those distended black cotton umbrellas they carry. And he'd stick it under his arm while he wrestled for his cat.'

'Poor, poor little creature! Soon to be a mother!' said Jill, thinking of their cherished family cat at home and her tenderly supervised accouchements. 'Yes. I can see the umbrella;—and I can see the cat, with its round, horrified eyes.'

'My dear Jill, life isn't long enough—we're not strong enough—to begin to think of all the cats.'

'Never mind. I'll think about Mademoiselle Ludérac's cats. And I shall go up and see her to-morrow,' said Jill.