Intent upon his formal mission, Lieutenant Beverley stalked boldly
into the inclosure at Roussillon place and was met on the gallery
by Madame Roussillon in one of her worst moods. She glared at him
with her hands on her hips, her mouth set irritably aslant upward,
her eyebrows gathered into a dark knot over her nose. It would be
hard to imagine a more forbidding countenance; and for
supplementary effect out popped hunchback Jean to stand behind
her, with his big head lying back in the hollow of his shoulders
and his long chin elevated, while he gawped intently up into
Beverley's face.
"Bon jour, Madame" said the Lieutenant, lifting his hat and
speaking with a pleasant accent. "Would it be agreeable to Captain
Roussillon for me to see him a moment?"
Despite Beverley's cleverness in using the French language, he had
a decided brusqueness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in
the least Gallic. True, the soft Virginian intonation marked every
word, and his obeisance was as low as if Madame Roussillon had
been a queen; but the light French grace was wholly lacking.
"What do you want of my husband?" Madame Roussillon demanded.
"Nothing unpleasant, I assure you, Madame," said Beverley.
"Well, he's not at home, Mo'sieu; he's up the river for a few
days."
She relaxed her stare, untied her eyebrows, and even let fall her
hands from her shelf-like hips.
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