A barely appreciable softening of the tone encouraged Cartaret. He balanced himself from foot to foot and asked:
“Those people—the ones, you understand, that have rented the room opposite mine?”
Refrogné understood but truly.
“Well—in short, who are they, monsieur?”
“Who knows?” asked Refrogné in the darkness. Cartaret could feel him shrug.
“I rather thought you might,” he ventured.
The darkness was silent; a good concierge answers questions, not general statements.
“Where—don’t you know where they come from?”
There was speech once more. Refrogné, it said, neither knew nor cared. In the rue du Val de Grâce people continually came and went—all manner of people from all manner of places—so long as they paid their rent, it was no concern of Refrogné’s. For all the information that he possessed, the two people of whom monsieur inquired might be natives of Cochin-China. Mademoiselle evidently wanted to be an artist, as scores of other young women, and Madame, her guardian and sole companion, evidently wanted Mademoiselle to be nothing at all. There were but two of them, thank God! The younger spoke much French with an accent terrible; the elder understood French, but spoke only some pig of a language that no civilized man could comprehend. That was all that Refrogné had to tell.
Cartaret went on toward the scene of his dinner-party. He wished he did not have to go. On the other hand, he was sure he had thrown Refrogné a franc to no purpose: the Lady of the Rose was little likely to seek him! He found the evening cold and his rain-coat inadequate. He began humming the drinking-song again.