He did not understand. He tried
to express himself in French, and failed. Then the woman
recommenced, talking at length. When she had done he shook his
head. His acquaintance with French was limited to the vocabulary
of food.
"Guillotine!" he murmured, the sole word of her discourse that he
had understood.
"Oui, oui! Guillotine. Enfin ...!" cried the woman excitedly.
Encouraged by her success in conveying even one word of her
remarks, she began a third time.
"Excuse me," said Gerald. "Madame is talking about the execution
at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. N'est-ce-pas, madame, que vous
parliez de Rivain?"
The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald's officious interruption.
But the woman smiled benevolently on Gerald, and insisted on
talking to her friend through him. And the Englishman had to make
the best of the situation.
"There isn't a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren't
talking about that execution," said Gerald on his own account.
"Indeed!" observed the Englishman.
Wine affected them in different ways.
Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale face
ending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. He
looked about, and, recognizing the woman of the scarlet cloak,
very discreetly saluted her.
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