The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne.
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