“And you, Madame?” he asked, in French.
The stranger strode forward as a pugilist steps from his corner for the round that he expects to win the fight for him. She clapped her wide head-dress upon her head, where it settled itself with a rakish tilt.
“Holy pipe!” cried Houdon. “In that I recognize her. It is the ferocious tuteur!”
Cartaret’s interest became tense.
“What did you want here?” he urged, still speaking French.
The stranger said, twice over, something that sounded like “Kar-kar-tay.”
“She is mad,” squeaked Varachon.
“She is worse; she is German,” vowed Madame.
Cartaret raised his hand to silence these contentions.
“Do you understand me?” he urged.