I could hold my tongue no longer; I feared his loss of nerve.
“Tell her it was left in your absence,” I said, very low and in French.
She darted a tigress look at me, but remained silent, waiting on Maître le Bastien. He repeated my lesson by rote.
“Who was in your house to receive it?” she demanded sharply, then suddenly pointing at me, “that man?”
“I suppose so,” faltered the goldsmith, the cold perspiration starting in beads on his forehead.
“Can you speak Russ?” she asked, turning on me.
“A little,” I replied, afraid to leave it in Maître le Bastien’s hands.
She held up the pear. “Who brought this to your master’s house?”
“A man, I think,” I replied stupidly, rubbing the back of my head like a clown.
She uttered an exclamation of impatience.