Martin gasped. “You don’t know that book?”
“By heart,” she replied mischievously, in order to shock Martin. As a matter of fact she had but turned over the pages of the immortal work and laid it down, disconcerted both by the archaic French and the full flavour of such an anecdote or two as she could understand.
“In the little town of Brantôme,” Fortinbras continued after a pause, “you will find an hotel called the Hôtel des Grottes, kept by an excellent and massive man by the name of Bigourdin, a poet and a philosopher and a mighty maker of pâté de foie gras. A line from me would put you on his lowest tariff, for he has a descending scale of charges, one for motorists, another for commercial travellers and a third for human beings.”
“It would be utterly delightful,” Martin interrupted, “if it were possible.”
“Why shouldn’t it be possible?” asked Corinna with a calm glance.
“You and I—alone—the proprieties——” he stammered.
Again Corinna burst out laughing. “Is that what’s worrying you? My poor Martin, you’re too comic. What are you afraid of? I promise you I’ll respect maiden modesty. My word of honour.”
“It is entirely on your account. But if you don’t mind—” said Martin politely.
“I assure you I don’t mind in the least,” replied Corinna with equal politeness. “But supposing,” she turned to Fortinbras, “we do go on this journey, what should we do when we got to the great Monsieur Bigourdin?”
“You would sun yourselves in his wisdom,” replied Fortinbras, “and convey my love to my little daughter Félise.”