e as a protector of innocence. Rust becomes uneasy
when that case is mentioned, but Madame bubbles over at the thoughts
of her _petite chere portefeuille, cette idee de genie_. She brags of
her genius, of her notion _si lumineuse_, of her _guet-apens si
adorable._

While Madame must have planned the Brighton trip, she contrived that
the suggestion should come timidly, deprecatingly, from Rust. She
would have scorned so crude an advance, one, too, falling so far short
of her high standard of womanly virtue, as a direct hint that she was
willing to pass three days in a seaside hotel with a young man! _Mais,
non. Ce serait une betise incroyable_! I can imagine her hints,
increasing in strength as she beat against the obtuse heaviness of
Rust's intellect. But I cannot imagine how any one, least of all the
brilliant Froissart, should have conceived that lumpish soldier to be
capable of the finesse needful for the Secret Service. He has since
been returned empty, and I do not wonder at it.

Madame must have lamented the stuffiness of London during the bright
days of early June, and painted, in her enthusiastic French fashion, a
picture of southern England and the glittering Channel. "_Ma foi, mon
ami_, what would I not give for one hour of peace and rest, away from
this swarming hive of men and women? It is as yet too cold to swim in
that sea which washes the shores of my beautiful France--and bears the
so gallant English soldiers to her help--but I would love to sit upon
the sands and gaze, gaze across the waters towards my poor bleeding
land. But, alas, I am a woman _tres occupee_." After a great deal of
this sort of thing, Rust was spurred up to suggest that he also was
weary, and that nothing could be more delightful than to sit beside
Madame upon those sands and to bewail with her the woes of their
common country. The idiot did not reflect that a woman of Madame's
taste in dress does not usually mess up her Paris frocks with nasty
sea sand. Madame sighed. It was a charming picture, but, alas, quite
impossible. Rust still further spurred by Madame--"Le Capitaine
Rouille is not very bright"--at last broke into a proposal delivered
with many hesitations and many apologies. Why should not they travel
to Brighton on the Friday evening and draw solace for their weary
souls from a Saturday, Sunday, and possibly Monday, at Brighton?
Madame became a frozen statue of offended womanhood! What, _mon Dieu_,
had she done that he sho