The required information about M. de Flavigny was supplied, in the end, from a quite unexpected source. For, walking down High Street one morning, Mme. de la Vireville saw two British naval officers in front of her. One of the backs seemed familiar. So, rather shamefacedly, she hurried after it, and breathed behind it an apologetic, "De grâce, Monsieur!"
Mr. Francis Tollemache checked, looked over his shoulder, stopped altogether, turned round, and saluted. His companion did the same.
"At your service, Madame," he responded. "Madame de la Vireville, I believe?"
"Oui, M. le Lieutenant," said she, a little breathlessly. "Et si Monsieur voudrait, il pourrait me rendre un grand, un très grand service!"
The ready colour suffused M. le Lieutenant's ingenuous countenance. He turned to his comrade. "Could you take her on, Carleton?" he asked.
Mr. Carleton shook his head. "Don't know a word of the lingo," he replied unhelpfully.
Mme. de la Vireville saw what was wrong. She pulled herself together for an effort. "You do not speak French, Messieurs, is it not? Eh bien, it is that my son is very ill, and he want to know if the little boy Anne de Flavigny—no, if ze fazzer of the little boy is . . . vivant . . . or kill'. Il le croit mort . . . and he have forgot"—she touched her forehead—"where he live in Londres. Cela le tracasse tant! You per'aps know it, Messieurs?"
"Le petit garçon—oh, hang it! Madame, vous comprendre un peu anglais, don't you? The little boy lives with his grandfather, Mr. Elphinstone, in Cavendish Square, but his father—père, isn't it—ain't killed." Thus Mr. Tollemache, in the same bilingual style.
"Mais . . . my son, he was sure . . ."
"I've the best of reasons for knowing that de Flavigny is alive," said Mr. Tollemache stoutly, casting the French tongue momentarily to the winds. "I went to see them all last week, and he's getting on famously—can walk now. Porter bien . . . marcher . . . vous comprendre, Madame?"