“None of your theology,” she said; “I come to you as a man—the only man I think in this island at present.”
“At present?”
“Yes, the other is in France, recovering from his wounds.”
“Ah!” said the abbé, glancing shrewdly into her face. “You also have perceived that he is a man—that. But there is our good Colonel Gilbert. You forget him.”
“He would have made a good priest,” said mademoiselle, bluntly, and the abbé laughed aloud.
“Ah! but you amuse me, mademoiselle. You amuse me enormously.” And he leant back to laugh at his ease.
“Yes, I came on purpose to amuse you. I came to tell you that Denise Lange has sold Perucca to Colonel Gilbert.”
“Sacred name of—thunder,” he muttered, the mirth wiped away from his face as if with a cloth. He sat bolt upright, glaring at her, his restless foot tapping on the floor.
“Ah, you women!” he ejaculated after a pause.
“Ah, you priests!” returned Mademoiselle Brun, composedly.