"Good morning, my dear madam." He spoke with just the faintest accent, betraying that English was not his native tongue. "Like a good Sister, going to the hospital again?"
Mrs. Wilders bowed, and, with heightened colour, sought to pass hastily on.
"What! not one word for so old a friend?" He spoke now in French—perfect Parisian French.
"I wish you would not address me in public: you know you promised me that," replied Mrs. Wilders, in a tone of much vexation, tinged with the respect that is born of fear.
"Forgive me, madam, if I have presumed. But I thought you would wish to hear the news."
"News! Of what?"
"Another battle, a fierce, terrible fight, in which, thank Heaven! the English have suffered defeat!" He spoke with an exultation that proved him to be a traitor, or no Englishman.
"A battle? The English defeated?"
"Yes; thank Heaven, beaten, massacred, disastrously defeated! It is only the beginning of the end. We shall hear soon of far worse. The Czar is gathering together all his strength; what can the puny forces of the allies do against him? They will be outnumbered thousands to one—annihilated before they can escape to their ships."
"Pshaw! What do I care! Whether they are driven away from the Crimea, or remain, is much the same to me. But, after all, this is mere talk; you can't terrify me by such vapourings."