“Well, no! You said nothing about it.... I assumed that your brother had not told you ... out of discretion, you understand?”
Cyprien became thoughtful.
“Listen, Schleifmann.... Tell me the truth!... What kind of people are these Chambannes?... Are they all right?”
Schleifmann pretended to have some trouble in swallowing the last mouthful, in order to gain time for thinking. Of course, he could not tell a falsehood to his friend. But why, on the other hand, should he further excite this savage ill-will, ever ready to spring up; why should he help to stir up family troubles? He chose to answer with harmless fibs and did it with studied indifference.
“Well!... I could say.... The husband seemed to me a somewhat colorless person.... He is an engineer and specializes in mining affairs, I believe.... The woman is pretty, smart and pleasant.... Besides, as I told you, I hardly know them.”
Cyprien was not eating. He bit his mustache; then suddenly he burst out, as if a spring had been released:
“They are Jews, are they not?”
“I am not sure!” Schleifmann replied. “The husband comes from the Berri, where Jews have not, as a rule, colonized very much.... His wife appears rather of the Semitic type ... but so refined, so very mixed, that I dare not affirm....”
“Yet, their name!” Cyprien insisted.
“Their name!” the Galician replied, feeling his philologis pride provoked. “Actually, there is nothing to prevent it from being a Frenchified Jewish name.... Chambannes might well be derived from Rhâm-Bâhal, or from the corrupted Rhâm-Bâhan, which means, if my recollections are correct, something like high-idol, a lofty idol....”