“A woman has called,” continued the servant. “She wants to see you, m’sieu’. It’s very important, she says.”
Barouche shook his head in negation. “No, Gaspard.”
“It ain’t one of the usual kind, I think, m’sieu’,” protested Gaspard. “It’s about the election. It’s got something to do with that—” he pointed to the newspaper propped against the teapot.
“It’s about that, is it? Well, what about that?” He eyed the servant as though to see whether the woman had given any information.
“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. She’s got a mind of her own. She’s even handsome, and she’s well-dressed. All she said was: ‘Tell m’sieu’ I want to see him. It’s about the election-about Mr. Grier.’”
Barode Barouche’s heart stopped. Something about Carnac Grier—something about the election—and a woman! He kept a hand on himself. It must not be seen that he was in any way moved.
“Is she English?”
“She’s French, m’sieu’.”
“You think I ought to see her, Gaspard?” said Barouche.
“Sure,” was the confident reply. “I guess she’s out against whoever’s against you.”