“I know that—I know that,” he cried. “I have acted! I am acting! De Vasselot arrives in Corsica to-morrow night. A letter from him crossed the message I sent to him by a special boat from St. Florent last night.”
“What brings him here?”
The abbé turned and looked at her with scorn.
“Bah!” he cried. “You know as well as I. It is the eyes of Mademoiselle Denise.”
He took his hat and went towards the door.
“On Wednesday morning, if you do not see me before, at the office of the notary, in the Boulevard du Palais at Bastia,” he said. “Where there will be a pretty salad for Mister the Colonel, prepared for him by a woman and a priest—eh! Both your witnesses shall be there, mademoiselle—both.”
He broke off with a laugh and an upward jerk of the head.
“Ah! but he is a pretty scoundrel, your colonel.”
“He is not my colonel,” returned Mademoiselle Brun. “Besides, even he has his good points. He is brave, and he is capable of an honest affection.”
The priest gave a scornful laugh.