“Hm! Is it indiscreet to ask where you are dining?”
Thérèse dared no longer to deny.
“We are going to the rue de Prony, to Mme. Chambannes’, a lady whom we met at the dance at the Saulvar.”
“Chambannes! How do you spell it?” Cyprien asked, with a suspicious grimace.
Thérèse spelled it out for him. The younger M. Raindal frowned.
“Chambannes, Chambannes!” he repeated, as if he were testing the sound of a name with which his ear was not familiar.
Finally he gave it up.
“Well, au revoir!” he said, “till to-morrow!”
He shook hands with them and walked down the stairs, still muttering to himself, “Chambannes, Chambannes!”
In spite of its general aspect, the name sounded vaguely Jewish to him. Then, he reflected, everybody knew how cunning Jews were in disguising their original names and changing them into French names. They called themselves Duval, Durand or Dubourg and hid under those Gallic, Roman or Frankish syllables, names bestowed on the mount of Sinai, and Uncle Cyprien boasted of an exceptionally good scent when it came to unearthing such deceptions. He had not even admitted the purity of his own family name until after a thorough search in the libraries. The moment he reached the street, therefore, he hurried towards the Brasserie Klapproth where Schleifmann could, he felt sure, throw some light on his suspicions.