“She knows no German,” said Varachon.
“Such German!” sniffed Houdon.
“Chut! This proves rather that she knows it too well,” grumbled Madame. “She but wishes to conceal it; probably she is a German spy.”
Devignes said he knew Italian, and he did seem to know a sort of Opera-Italian, but it, too, was useless.
Cartaret had an inspiration.
“Spanish!” he suggested. “Does any one know any Spanish?”
Pasbeaucoup did; he knew two or three phrases—chiefly relating to prices on the menu of the Deux Colombes—but to him also the awful woman only shook her head in ignorance.
Cartaret took up the French again.
“Can you not tell me what you want here?” he pleaded.
“Kar-kar-tay,” said the stranger.