“You fill me with alarm,” said Fleurissoire; “the same thing happened to me the evening I arrived—yesterday, that is—I fell in with a guide to whom I entrusted my portmanteau, and who talked French.”
“Good heavens!” cried the curé, struck with terror; “could his name have been Baptistin?”
“Baptistin! That was it!” wailed Amédée, who felt his knees giving way beneath him.
“Unhappy man! What did you say to him?” The curé pressed his arm.
“Nothing that I can remember.”
“Think! Think! Try to remember, for Heaven’s sake!”
“No, really!” stammered Amédée, terrified; “I don’t think I said anything to him.”
“What did you let out?”
“No, nothing, I assure you. But you do well to warn me.”
“What hotel did he take you to?”