“Francine,” she said, drawing her into a little dressing-room which adjoined her chamber and was lighted through a small round window opening on a dark corner of the fortifications where they joined the rock terrace of the Promenade, “put everything in order. As for the salon, you can leave that as it is,” she added, with a smile which women reserve for their nearest friends, the delicate sentiment of which men seldom understand.
“Ah! how sweet you are!” exclaimed the little maid.
“A lover is our beauty—foolish women that we are!” she replied gaily.
Francine left her lying on the ottoman and went away convinced that, whether her mistress were loved or not, she would never betray Montauran.
“Are you sure of what you are telling me, old woman?” Hulot was saying to Barbette, who had sought him out as soon as she had reached Fougeres.
“Have you got eyes? Look at the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, there, my good man, to the right of Saint-Leonard.”
Corentin, who was with Hulot, looked towards the summit in the direction pointed out by Barbette, and, as the fog was beginning to lift, he could see with some distinctness the column of white smoke the woman told of.
“But when is he coming, old woman?—to-night, or this evening?”
“My good man,” said Barbette, “I don’t know.”