Le Beau flipped a pinch of snuff in the air. "Ah, bah! She no Spain."
"So she is French," murmured Jennings to himself.
"Ah, non; by no means," cried the Frenchman unexpectedly. "She no French. She Englees—yis—I remembers. A ver' fine and big demoiselle. She wish to come out at de opera. But she too large—mooch too large. Englees—yis—La Juive."
"A Jewess?" cried Jennings in his turn.
"I swear to you, mon ami. Englees Jewess, mais oui! For ten months she dance here, tree year gone. Zen zee orange peels and pouf! I see her no mores. But never dance—no—too large, une grande demoiselle."
"Do you know where she came from?"
"No. I know nozzin' but what I tell you."
"Did you like her?"
Le Beau shrugged his shoulders. "I am too old, mon ami. Les femmes like me not. I haf had mes affairs—ah, yis. Conceive—" and he rattled out an adventure of his youth which was more amusing than moral.
But Jennings paid very little attention to him. He was thinking that Maraquito-Celestine was a more mysterious woman than he had thought her. While Jennings was wondering what use he could make of the information he had received, Le Beau suddenly flushed crimson. A new thought had occurred to him. "Do you know zis one—zis Celestine Durand? Tell her I vish money—"