"Malaga!" cried the portress, rushing into the attic, "there's a fine
gentleman wanting you. He is getting information from Chapuzot, who is
playing him off to give me time to tell you."
"Thank you, M'ame Chapuzot; but what will he think of me if he finds
me ironing my gown?"
"Pooh! when a man's in love he loves everything about us."
"Is he an Englishman? they are fond of horses."
"No, he looks to me Spanish."
"That's a pity; they say Spaniards are always poor. Stay here with me,
M'ame Chapuzot; I don't want him to think I'm deserted."
"Who is it you are looking for, monsieur?" asked Madame Chapuzot,
opening the door for Thaddeus, who had now come upstairs.
"Mademoiselle Turquet."
"My dear," said the portress, with an air of importance, "here is some
one to see you."
A line on which the clothes were drying caught the captain's hat and
knocked it off.
"What is it you wish, monsieur?" said Malaga, picking up the hat and
giving it to him.
"I saw you at the Circus," said Thaddeus, "and you reminded me of a
daughter whom I have lost, mademoiselle; and out of affection for my
Heloise, whom you resemble in a most striking manner, I should like to
be of some service to you, if you will permit me."
"Why, certainly; pray sit down, general," said Madame Chapuzot;
"nothing could be more straightforward, more gallant.
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