“This many a year,” replied the Abbé, with a faint sigh.
“She's a rare one,” said the man, who grew at each instant more confidential, “and thinks no more of a gold rouble than many another would of a copeck. Is it true, as they say, she was once an actress?”
“There are stranger stories than that about her,” said D'Esmonde. “But why has she come alone? How happens it that she is here?”
“That is the secret that none of us can fathom,” said the courier. “We thought there was to have been another, and I believe there is another in the passport, but it was no affair of mine. I had my orders from the Prince's own 'intendant,' who bespoke all the relays for the road, and here we are.”
“I will explain all the mystery to you at another time, courier,” said D'Esmonde; “meanwhile, let nothing of what we have been saying escape you. By the way,” added he, half carelessly, “what name did she travel under?”
“The passport was made out 'Die Gräfin von Dalton;' but she has a Spanish name, for I heard it once from the intendant.”
“Was it Lola de Seviglia?”
“That was it. I remember it well.”
“We are very old friends indeed!” said the Abbé; “and now be cautious; let none know that we have spoken together, and I can serve your fortune hereafter.”
The German scarcely looked quite satisfied with himself for the confidence he had been unwittingly led into; “but, after all,” thought he, “the priest knew more than I could tell him;” and so he resumed his search without further thought of the matter.