Jean?" she said.

"Little black wasps, I think, ma'm'selle-little black wasps that sting."

Guida did not understand.

Jean gave a curious cackle, and continued: "Ah, those wasps--they have a
sting so nasty!" He paused an instant, then he added in a lower voice,
and not quite so gaily: "Yon is the way that war begins."

Guida's fingers suddenly clinched rigidly upon the tiller. "War? Do--do
you think that's a French fleet, Maitre Jean?"

"Steadee--steadee-keep her head up, ma'm'selle," he answered, for Guida
had steered unsteadily for the instant. "Steadee--shale ben! that's
right--I remember twenty years ago the black wasps they fly on the coast
of France like that. Who can tell now?" He shrugged his shoulders.
"P'rhaps they are coum out to play, but see you, when there is trouble in
the nest it is my notion that wasps come out to sting. Look at France
now, they all fight each other there, ma fuifre! When folks begin to
slap faces at home, look out when they get into the street. That is when
the devil have a grand fete."

Guida's face grew paler as he spoke. The eyes of Maitresse Aimable were
fixed on her now, and unconsciously the ponderous good-wife felt in that
warehouse she called her pocket for her rosary. An extra bead was there
for Guida, and one for another than Guida. But Maltresse Aimable did
more: she dived into the well of silence for her voice; and for the first
time in her life she showed anger with Jean. As her voice came forth she
coloured, her cheeks expanded, and the words sallied out in puffs: