The meeting was fully with him, when Tom broke out again—
“I say, I know. Let’s ask Gustav. He’s no end chummy with Armstrong. He might know a thing or two. He’s the chap I told you about at Christy’s minstrels,” continued Master Tom, warming up at the genial reminiscence.
“Is that the French waiter down-stairs who helped bring you down from London?” asked the doctor.
“Yes. I’m keeping him here as valet for the present. Armstrong mentioned, I remember, that he knew him.”
“Ring him up,” said Tom.
Gustav appeared, all smiles and shrugs and compliments.
“Eh bien! my good gentleman,” said he, “I am ’appy to see you well. I was mortifié for your mishap; but Mademoiselle—ah, Mademoiselle!”—here he raised his fingers gracefully to his lips—“ze angel step in where ze pauvre garçon may not walk. You could not but be well with a nurse so charmante. Ah, my friend, ’ow ’appy will be my good, kind friend when he return!”
“You mean Mr Armstrong. Have you known him long?” asked Roger.
“Pardieu! Ten, fifteen, twenty year; I know not how long. He is brother to me, your kind governor. He is to the pauvre père a son, and to the petite Françoise—ah! quelle est morte!”
“What was the name of your father?” demanded Roger, his hand tightening on Rosalind’s as he spoke.