Madame Jupille knew me at once, and we fell (figuratively speaking) upon each other’s neck. Her shop was empty, the whole quarter had trooped off to the review. After mingling our tears (again figuratively) over the fickleness of the capital, I inquired if she had any letters for me.
“Why, no, comrade.”
“None?” I exclaimed with a very blank face.
“Not one”; Madame Jupille eyed me archly, and relented. “The reason being that Mademoiselle is too discreet.”
“Ah!” I heaved a big sigh of relief. “You provoking woman, tell me what you mean by that?”
“Well, now, it may have been ten days ago that a stranger called in and asked if I had any news of the corporal who praised my white wine. ‘Have I any news,’ said I, ‘of a needle in a bundle of hay? They all praise it.’” (O, Madame Jupille!)
“’The corporal I’m speaking of,’ said he, ‘is or was called Champdivers.’ ‘Was!’ I cried, ‘you are not going to tell me he is dead?’ and I declare to you, comrade, the tears came into my eyes. ‘No, he is not,’ said the stranger, ’and the best proof is that he will be here inquiring for letters before long. You are to tell him that if he expects one from’—see, I took the name down on a scrap of paper, and stuck it in a wine-glass here—’from Miss Flora Gilchrist, he will do well to wait in Paris until a friend finds means to deliver it by hand. And if he asks more about me, say that I am from’—tenez, I wrote the second name underneath—yes, that is it—’Mr. Romaine.’”
“Confound his caution!” said I. “What sort of man was this messenger?”
“O, a staid-looking man, dark and civil-spoken. You might call him an upper servant, or perhaps a notary’s clerk; very plainly dressed, in black.”