“The deuce! you are very fortunate, Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche!”
“I haf shtudy te human heard; I am most egsberd in physsionomique.”
“What do you say, monsieur le baron?”
“I say I am ein egsberd in physsionomique.”
“I don’t understand at all.”
“In physsionomique.”
“Oh! you mean physiognomy.”
Monsieur le baron turned on his heel, without a smile. The best way to rid one’s self of a foreigner is to pretend not to understand him.
Meanwhile my little dialogue with Monsieur de Witcheritche had caused me to miss Monsieur Crachini’s romanza. I was sorry, for he always combined with his singing an expressive pantomime which made it doubly interesting. While various other amateurs entertained the company, I looked about for Raymond; for being unable to find a seat beside Madame de Marsan, I was anxious to obtain some information concerning her, and my neighbor was the very man to give me that.
He was not in the salon. I went into the smaller room, where my entrance brought to an abrupt close a whispered conversation between Vauvert and a fair-haired lady who had been in the dining room an hour, looking for her shawl amid a multitude of bonnets, mantles, and shawls which were tossed pell-mell on the bed of the host and hostess.