“For that same reason you read Monsieur Molière?” I suggested.
“Doubtless, monsieur.”
“Who are you?”
“Is a passport required in France?” she replied, languidly.
“Are you what you pretend to be, an Alsatian turkey tender?”
“Parbleu! There are my turkeys, monsieur.”
“Of course, and there is your peasant dress and there are your wooden shoes, and there also, mademoiselle, are your soft hands and your accented speech and your plays of Molière.”
“You are very wise for a hussar,” she said.
“Perhaps,” said I, “but I have asked you a question which remains parried.”
She balanced the hazel rod across her shoulders with a faintly malicious smile.