She had not thought anything could equal her despair at that moment. She longed to enjoy human food as he did. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. "No; I don't think I'd laugh.
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