towards him as she spoke—“C’est très intelligent, n’est-ce pas?”
“Et pour Le Times?” La Marquise demanded. “Il écrit tout ça pour Le New York Times?”
“Mais oui,” the Countess said glibly, before he could object. “Il est déjà bien connu. Moi, j’ai lu beaucoup de choses de sa main—”
“Now, look here,” he began, glaring angrily across the table at the lying old woman. “You have no right—”
“Ah, oui!” La Marquise broke in, with a vigorous nod of satisfaction, after a brief inspection of him. “C’est très évident! Il est intelligent! Bon!” she said decisively, and turned to him with the air of a person whose mind is made up and whose course of action determined—“Now, monsieur,” she said, “I tell you vat I have in mind. I have beeg’ospital—non?” she said, smiling a little at his puzzled look. “I am—vat you call it?—le président—le directeur, n’est-ce pas?—of beeg’ospital in de Nort’—ve have zere ze soldats, n’est-ce pas—ze oh so many blessés—les pauvres!” she said in a tone of pity—“les mutilés de la guerre…. Ve have old building—eet ees no good, eet ees not beeg enough—not moderne—and so,” she added simply, “ve build anozzer—beeg, moderne—and”—the conclusion of the matter—“ve need monnee.” She was silent for a moment, beaming hopefully at him. “Monsieur,” she said presently, in an ingratiating tone, and with an air of naïve confidence that was astounding—“I s’ink ven I tell you vat ve need—’ow much monnee,” her voice sank craftily, “you vill get for us—eh?”
He stared at her for a moment with a bewildered face, unable to reply.
“But how,” he stammered at length—“how do you think—what do you think I can do?” he said bluntly.
“Ah!” La Marquise cried triumphantly. “C’est facile!” Again her voice became low, confiding, crafty. “You are a journalist—eh? You write for ze grand journal américain—ze New York Times—yes?… Vell, I tell you vat to say,” she went on placidly. “You write ze article for ze Times—you spick of zis beeg’ospital—you tell of ze grand vork of restauration—you tell of ze poor soldats—les blessés—les mutilés—you say La France have nozzing—zey have no monnee—ze poor pipples’ave lose everys’ink—you say, ve’ave so motch—ze rich Américains—ve must not let zis great vork die—ve must help ze poor soldats—ve must give ze monnee for ze’ospital…. You see—I show you,” she cried with a confident chuckle—“if you like I write eet out myself—and zen all you have to do is meck—vat do you say?—la traduction.”
