“But!” cried Elinor again, her astonishment growing, “I don’t understand. What reparations are you talking about?”
“Zese, madame!” the Frenchman said, and coughing portentously, he rattled the flimsy sheets of paper in his hand, held them up before his eyes, and began to read:
“Pour l’endommagement d’un veston du soir—trois cents francs!”
“What? What?” said Elinor in a small, chilled tone. “For—what?”
“Mais oui, madame!” the Frenchman now cried passionately, for the first time rising to the heights of moral indignation, “—un veston du soir complet—ruiné, madame!—complètement, absolument ruiné!… Trois cents francs, monsieur,” he said cunningly, turning to Starwick, “—c’est pas cher!… Pour moi, oui!—c’est cher—mais pour vous—ah-h!” he waved his dirty fingers and laughed with scornful deprecation, “—c’est rien! Rien du tout.” He rattled the flimsy paper in his hands, cleared his throat, and went on:
“Pour l’endommagement d’une chemise—une chemise, n’est-ce pas, du soir?” he looked up inquiringly, “—cinquante francs”—
“But this,” gasped Elinor, “this is—” She looked at Starwick with an astounded face. Starwick said nothing.
“Pour l’angoisse mentale,” the Frenchman continued.
“What?” Elinor gasped and looked at Ann. “What did he say?”
“Mental anguish,” Ann answered curtly. “All right,” she turned to the Frenchman, “how much is the mental anguish?”
“C’est cinq cents francs, mademoiselle.”
“But this man?” cried Elinor, turning to Ann with an air of astounded enlightenment—“this man is—”
“He’s a shyster lawyer, yes!” Ann said bitterly. “Couldn’t you see it from the first?”
“Ah, mademoiselle,”—the Frenchman began with a reproachful grimace, and a little, deprecating movement of his fingers, “—you are—”
“How much?” Ann answered in her level, toneless French. “How much do you want?”
“Vous comprenez, mademoiselle—”
“How much?” she said harshly. “How much do you want?”
His furtive eyes gleamed with a sudden fox-glint of eager greed.
“Mille francs!” he said eagerly. “Mille francs pour tout ensemble!… Pour vous, mademoiselle”—he laughed again with scornful deprecation as he waved his grimy angers—“c’est rien—pour moi—”
