“That’s the husband of the lady playing the ‘cello.”
“What! such a disgusting face approach that charming head! What an outrage! It reminds me of a Satyr beside a Hebe.”
“Still, the lady seems to be fond of her husband.”
“It’s easy to see that she’s a foreigner. What does this husband of hers do?”
“Nothing; he’s a baron.”
“A baron! I should never have suspected it; he looks more like a cobbler. But in Germany everybody’s a baron, just as in Russia all the soldiers have decorations; it doesn’t mean anything.”
Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, who, as he rolled his eyes about, had doubtless observed that I was looking at him, came to me as soon as his wife had finished, and began to converse with a smiling face. I have observed that the Germans smile a great deal when they are talking. I regretted that it was not courteous to laugh in a person’s face, for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche was very amusing to look at, especially when he wished to make himself agreeable. I wondered what he wanted of me.
“I’ll pet tat monsir is ein egsberd on te ‘cello. Monsir is ein much gut blayer himself, hein?”
“I, monsieur? you are mistaken; I do not play at all.”
“Oh! you vish not to admit it; I can tivine all at once te innermost toughts of bersons py tare faces.”