two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily dived into me.
"C'est cela!" said a voice. "Je la connais: c'est l'Anglaise. Tant pis. Toute Anglaise, et par conséquent, toute bégueule qu'elle soit—elle fera mon affaire, ou je saurai pourquoi."
Then, with a certain stern politeness (I suppose he thought I had not caught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings), and in a jargon the most execrable that ever was heard. "Meess ——, play you must: I am planted there."
"What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?" I inquired: for M. Paul Emanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement.
"Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make the prude. I read your skull, that night you came; I see your moyens: play you can; play you must."
"But how, M. Paul? What do you mean?"
"There is no time to be lost," he went on now speaking in French; "and let us thrust to the wall all reluctance, all excuses, all minauderies. You must take a part."
"In the vaudeville?"
"In the vaudeville. You have said it."
