He savored the last solo, the coda. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. She stopped eating.
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