“Mademoiselle,” he said, removing his hat and addressing her with all the courtesy of a gentleman approaching any lady in his wife’s drawing-room; “Mademoiselle, these gentlemen are from America. They would like to talk with you for a few minutes if you feel equal to it.”
“Certainly,” she replied, and turned with a grateful smile toward me.
With characteristic delicacy the very polite chief of police at once withdrew, and as long as we remained with her he continued to pace the outer court. Not so the prison-master, soldiers, and other officials.
“Do you speak French, mademoiselle?” I asked.
“Yes, monsieur, a little; or German.”
“What about English?”
“A leetle,” she answered, laughing nervously.
She was still standing. There was but one chair in the room, a wooden chair. This I drew toward her and she sat down. As she did so her handkerchief dropped from her hand. We all noticed it, for it was wet and stained with blood.
Luboshitz picked it up and handed it to her. As he turned away I saw beads of cold sweat standing on his brow, and he told me afterward that he thought he was on the point of fainting.
“Once I knew all the languages, monsieur,” she went on, “but since my head was hurt I find it difficult to remember.”