“I do not know; he only speaks a sort of Spanish patois, and he has brought me here to make himself understood by you.”
The mulatto drew from his pocket the letter which Henri had written to Paquita and handed it to him. Henri threw it in the fire.
“Ah—so—the game is beginning,” said Henri to himself. “Paul, leave us alone for a moment.”
“I translated this letter for him,” went on the interpreter, when they were alone. “When it was translated, he was in some place which I don’t remember. Then he came back to look for me, and promised me two louis to fetch him here.”
“What have you to say to me, nigger?” asked Henri.
“I did not translate nigger,” said the interpreter, waiting for the mulatto’s reply....
“He said, sir,” went on the interpreter, after having listened to the unknown, “that you must be at half-past ten to-morrow night on the boulevard Montmartre, near the cafe. You will see a carriage there, in which you must take your place, saying to the man, who will wait to open the door for you, the word cortejo—a Spanish word, which means lover,” added Poincet, casting a glance of congratulation upon Henri.
“Good.”
The mulatto was about to bestow the two louis, but De Marsay would not permit it, and himself rewarded the interpreter. As he was paying him, the mulatto began to speak.
“What is he saying?”