"Do you speak English?" I ventured.
"Nein," was his reply, with a shrug of the leonine shoulders.
I drew a long breath and began again.
"Parlez-vous Français?"
His reply to this was as singular as unprecedented. He turned his back and disappeared up the wide stairs in the rear.
"This may be foreign politeness," I was beginning, doubtfully, when he reappeared, accompanied by an intensified counterpart of himself. The setting sun in the face of this man gave promise of a scorching day.
"Parlez-vous Français, monsieur?" I began again, when we had bowed and "bon-jour"-ed for some time.
"Oui, oui, mademoiselle."
Here was an unexpected dilemma. A terrible pause ensued. Then, with an effort which in some minds would have produced a poem at least, I attempted to make known the object of our quest. I cannot begin to tell of the facial contortions which accompanied this sentence, nor of the ineffable peace which followed its conclusion. It made no manner of difference that his reply was a jargon of unintelligible sounds. Virtue is its own reward. One sentence alone I caught, as the indistinguishable tones flew by. We were to take the first street, and then turn to the right.
"What did he say?" asked Mrs. K., when we had merci-d ourselves out of their radiant presences.