"I am a public scribe and interpreter; I live at the Palais de
Justice, and am named Poincet."
"Good! . . . and this one?" said Henri to Poincet, looking towards the
mulatto.
"I do not know; he only speaks a sort of Spanish _patois_, and he has
brought me here to make himself understood by you."
The mulatto drew from his pocket the letter which Henri had written to
Paquita and handed it to him. Henri threw it in the fire.
"Ah--so--the game is beginning," said Henri to himself. "Paul, leave
us alone for a moment."
"I translated this letter for him," went on the interpreter, when they
were alone. "When it was translated, he was in some place which I
don't remember. Then he came back to look for me, and promised me two
_louis_ to fetch him here."
"What have you to say to me, nigger?" asked Henri.
"I did not translate _nigger_," said the interpreter, waiting for the
mulatto's reply. . . .
"He said, sir," went on the interpreter, after having listened to the
unknown, "that you must be at half-past ten to-morrow night on the
boulevard Montmartre, near the cafe. You will see a carriage there, in
which you must take your place, saying to the man, who will wait to
open the door for you, the word _cortejo_--a Spanish word, which means
_lover_," added Poincet, casting a glance of congratulation upon
Henri.
"Good."
The mulatto was about to bestow the two _louis_, but De Marsay would
not permit it, and himself rewarded the interpreter. As he was paying
him, the mulatto began to speak.
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