Paris (France) -- Fiction; País Vasco (Spain) -- Fiction
"Just, please, remember what I've said," he requested.
In the darkness of the box into which it was extended, his hand was
grasped by a larger and rougher hand, and the franc was deftly
extracted.
"_Merci, monsieur._"
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.
They were singing it outright, in a full chorus, when he entered the
little room on the first floor of the Café Des Deux Colombes. The
table was already spread, the feast already started. The unventilated
room was flooded with light and full of the steam of hot viands.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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