“You did what?” I asked.
“I done kissed one of dem yaller gals, Marse Dave. Yass'r, I done kissed M'lisse.”
“Do you think Mélisse would do something for you if you asked her?” I inquired.
Benjy seemed hurt.
“Marse Dave—” he began reproachfully.
“Very well, then,” I interrupted, taking the letter from my pocket, “there is a lady who is ill here, Mrs. Clive—”
I paused, for a new look had come into Benjy's eyes. He began that peculiar, sympathetic laugh of the negro, which catches and doubles on itself, and I imagined that a new admiration for me dawned on his face.
“Yass'r, yass, Marse Dave, I reckon M'lisse 'll git it to her 'thout any one tekin' notice.”
I bit my lips.
“If Mrs. Clive receives this within an hour, Mélisse shall have one piastre, and you another. There is an answer.”