Madame Victoire, chatting in her half-French and half-English jargon,
opened while the Captain examined one drawer after another; but, as Harry
Esmond thought, rather carelessly, as if he was only conducting the
examination for form's sake.

Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, and, with a
piercing shriek, cried, "_Non, jamais, monsieur l'officier! Jamais!_ I
will rather die than let you see this wardrobe."

But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on his face,
which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of laughter. It
contained--not papers regarding the conspiracy--but my lady's wigs,
washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire said men were monsters, as the
Captain went on with his search. He tapped the back to see whether or no
it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my lady from
her bed called out, with a voice that did not sound like that of a very
sick woman:

"Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to arrest
gentlemen, Captain?"

"These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship," the
Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. "I have
found nothing which concerns the government as yet--only the weapons with
which beauty is authorised to kill," says he, pointing to a wig with his
sword-tip. "We must now proceed to search the rest of the house."

"You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me," cried my
lady, pointing to the soldier.