On my entrance, she rose wearily to her feet, and looked round in feeble surprise, but without any sign of perturbation at seeing a stranger before her.
“Have I the honour to address Madame Leferrier?” I inquired, with as polite a bow as the heavy fish-basket on my back permitted me to make.
“I am Dame Leferrier,” she replied. “Who are you, young man? As far as my dim eyes will allow me to judge, I have never seen you before.”
“You are quite right, madame,” said I. “I am a perfect stranger to you. This note, however, from your son Jean will tell you who I am.”
“A note from Jean!” she exclaimed. “What is the meaning of it? Why is he not here, himself?”
“I am sorry to inform you that a slight misfortune has befallen him,” I replied. “He and his comrade Pierre are at present prisoners in the hands of the English; but they will no doubt soon find the means to escape, as I have just done.”
“Prisoners!” she exclaimed. “Mon Dieu! what will become of them? And what,” she added, “will become of me, now that I have lost the support which they only would give me?”
“Be not distressed, madame,” I replied, “either on their account or your own. They will be treated with the utmost kindness, prisoners though they are; and, for yourself, I shall need a home until I can get out of Bastia and return to my own; and if you will give me shelter, I am both able and willing to pay you well for it.”
I still held the note in my hand, and as I ceased speaking I offered it her again.
“Read it out to me, monsieur, if you please,” said she. “My sight is but poor at the best of times; and is certainly not equal to reading poor Jean’s letter by this light.”