“Very good; pray talk a little with the Baron von Schtapelmerg; he will be overjoyed to have an opportunity to converse in his native tongue.”
Far from being overjoyed at the prospect of speaking German, Croque made a wry face, twisted his moustache and tried to go away; but Monsieur Courty was already by his side and was addressing him in German.
“Gut! gut! tarteiff! certainly I agree with you,” muttered the pretended baron, shaking his head.
The young man stared at him in amazement and repeated his remark. Croque, seeing that he had made an inconsequent reply, exclaimed:
“What devilish jargon is this you’re talking? I don’t understand a word of it!”
“Why, it’s the purest German, monsieur—the most ordinary words.”
“I beg pardon! I’m from Bavaria and I only speak Bavarian.”
“I have stayed a long while in Bavaria, monsieur, and the people there speak exactly as I just spoke to you.”
“Then, monsieur, the language must have changed since I have been in France.”
“This fellow is no more a Bavarian than you are,” said Monsieur Courty to Freluchon; “and, more than that, he doesn’t know a single word of German.”