The German sat down heavily, his eyes gleaming evilly at the Frenchman.
“Now, monsieur,” said Chassaigne, in succinct tones, “since you say you do not understand, I will be more explicit. I desire that you should induce in this young woman the hypnotic trance which is your habitual treatment for her indisposition——”
A gleam of cunning flitted in the German’s eyes.
“Very well,” he said, with sulky submission. “If you insist!”
“But with this difference,” continued Chassaigne, “that your habitual suggestion shall be reversed!”
The German started—controlled himself quickly.
“I do not understand,” he said, maintaining his pose of sulkiness.
“I mean that instead of suggesting to her that she is and always has been Ottilie Rosenhagen—you suggest to her that she is really Hélène Courvoisier, a French girl deported from Lille!”
The muscles stood out suddenly upon the German’s lean jaws, even as, with a strength of will Chassaigne could not but admire, he smiled mockingly into his adversary’s face.
“You rave, monsieur!” he said, and his tone emphasized the insult.