"Madame Rouvigny has been very useful to your government, I believe?" said he, with the air of one who makes a casual inquiry.
"Oh, exceedingly so; her information concerning Martinique and Guadaloupe has proved invaluable to the general and admiral—at least, so rumour says."
"Ah!" said he, with a French grimace; "and her Boscobelle——"
"Lies there," said I, pointing to it.
"Where?"
"Amid yonder tall cabbage-trees that tower above the sugar-canes."
"Thank you, M. le Soldat," said he, raising his hat.
"Adieu, M. l'Abbé."
We bowed, and separated.
"What the deuce can this grim and ugly padre want with Eulalie?" thought I, while hurrying along. "And so her husband is ill—dying of yellow fever; bon voyage to you, M. le Chef de Bataillon!" added I, while some very brilliant ideas occurred to me.