“And the old man?”
“Ah, hélas! he is ver’ ver’ ill. He vill die next week. Moi, I can not to him go; and Marie, she write me she must leave Paris this day to her duties. It is sad for the poor old père to die with not von friend to ’old ’is ’and. Ah! if ze petite Françoise yet lived, ma pauvre enfant, she would stay and—”
“Stop!” said the tutor imperatively. “Is he still in the old place?”
“Hélas, non! you make ze joke, you. Ve are ver’ ver’ poor, and ’ave no homes. Mon père, he is to the hôpital. Thank ’eaven, they ’ave zere give ’im ze bed to die.”
“Which hospital is he at?” said the tutor.
“De Saint Luc.”
“I will see him.”
The Frenchman gave a little hysterical laugh; then, with tears in his eyes, he seized the hand of the Englishman and wrung it rapturously.
“Oh, mon ami, mon cher ami!” cried he, “’eaven will bless you. I am ’appy that you say that. You vill see ’im? Yes? You vill ’old ’is ’and ven he do die? He sall have one friend to kiss his poor front? Oh, I am content; I am gay.”
How long he would have gone on thus it is hard to say. Mr Armstrong cut short the scene rather abruptly.