Читать книгу The Lost Ambassador; Or, The Search For The Missing Delora - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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The Paris taximeters are good, and our progress was rapid. We passed through the crowded streets, where the women spread themselves out like beautiful butterflies, where the electric lights were deadened by the brilliance of the moon, where men, bent double over the handles of their bicycles, shot hither and thither with great paper lanterns alight in front of them. We passed into the quieter streets, though even here the wayfarers whom we met were obviously bent on pleasure, up the hill, till at last we pulled up at one of the best-known restaurants in the locality. Here Louis was welcomed as a prince. The manager, with many exclamations and gesticulations, shook hands with him like a long-lost brother. The maîtres d'hôtel all came crowding up for a word of greeting. A table in the best part of the room, which was marked reservé, was immediately made ready. Champagne, already in its pail of ice, was by our side almost before we had taken our places.

I had been here a few nights before, alone, and had found the place uninspiring enough. To-night, except that Louis told me the names of many of the people, and that the supper was the best meal which I had eaten in Paris, I was very little more amused. The nigger, the Spanish dancing-girl with her rolling eyes, the English music-hall singer with her unmistakable Lancashire accent, went through the same performance. The gowns of the women were wonderful—more wonderful still their hats, their gold purses, the costly trifles which they carried. A woman by our side sat looking into a tiny pocket-mirror of gold studded with emeralds, powdering her face the while with a powder-puff to match, in the centre of which were more emeralds, large and beautifully cut. Louis noticed my scrutiny.

"The wealth of France," he whispered in my ear, "is spent upon its women. What the Englishman spends at his club or on his sports the Frenchman spends upon his womankind. Even the bourgeoisie, who hold their money with clenched fists like that," he gesticulated, striking the table, "for their women they spend, spend freely. They do all this, and the great thing which they ask in return is that they are amused. After all, monsieur," he continued, "they are logical. What a man wants most in life, in the intervals between his work, is amusement. It is amusement that keeps him young, keeps him in health. It is his womankind who provide that amusement."

"And if one does not happen to be married to a Frenchwoman?"

Louis nodded sympathetically.

"Monsieur is feeling like that," he said, as he sipped his wine thoughtfully. "Yes, it is very plain! Yet monsieur is not always sad. I have seen him often at my restaurant, the guest or the host of many pleasant parties. There is a change since those days, a change indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."

I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maître d'hôtel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.

"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year—no more. For the man of the world—such as you and I, monsieur—these places do not exist."

I glanced at my companion a little curiously. There was something in his manner distinctly puzzling. With his lips he was smiling approval at the little danseuse who was pirouetting near our table, but it seemed to me that his mind was busy with other thoughts. Suddenly he turned his head toward mine.

"Monsieur must remember," he said quietly, "that a place like this is as the froth on our champagne. It is all show. It exists and it passes away. This very restaurant may be unknown in a year's time—a beer palace for the Germans, a den of absinthe and fiery brandy for the cochers. It is for the tourists, for the happy ladies of the world, that such a place exists. For those who need other things—other things exist."

"Go on, Louis," I said quietly. "You have something in your mind. What is it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I think," he said slowly, "that I could take monsieur somewhere where he would be more entertained. There is nothing to do there, nothing to see, little music. But it is a place—it has an atmosphere. It is different. I cannot explain. Monsieur would understand if he were there."

"Then, for Heaven's sake, let us pay our bill and go!" I exclaimed. "We have both had enough of this, at any rate."

Louis did not immediately reply. I turned around—we were sitting side by side—wondering at his lack of response. What I saw startled me. The man's whole expression had changed. His mouth had come together with a new firmness. A frown which I had never seen before had darkened his forehead. His eyes had become little points of light. I realized then, perhaps for the first time, their peculiar color—a sort of green tinged with gray. He presented the appearance of a man of intelligence and acumen who is thinking deeply over some matter of vital importance.

"Well, what is it, Louis?" I asked. "Are you repenting of your offer already? Don't you want to take me to this other place?"

"It is not that, monsieur," Louis answered softly, "only I was wondering if I had been a little rash."

"Rash?" I repeated.

Louis nodded his head slowly, but he paused for several moments before speaking.

"I was only wondering," said he, "whether, after all, it would amuse you. There is nothing to be seen, not so much as here. Afterwards, perhaps, you might regret—you might think that I had done wrong in not telling you certain things about the place which must remain secret."

"We will risk that," I answered, rising. "Let me come with you and I will judge for myself."

Louis followed my example, but I fancied that I still detected a slight unwillingness in his movements. My request for the bill had been met with a smile and a polite shake of the head. Louis whispered in my ear that we were the guests of the management—that it would not be correct to offer the money for our entertainment. So I was forced to content myself with tipping the head-waiter and the vestiaire, the chausseur who opened the door, and the tall commissionnaire who welcomed us upon the pavement and whistled for a petite voiture.

"Where to, messieurs?" the man asked, as the carriage drew up.

Even then Louis hesitated. He was sitting on the side of the carriage nearest to the pavement, and he rose to his feet as the question was asked. It seemed to me that he almost whispered the address into the ear of the coachman. At any rate, I heard nothing of it. The man nodded, and turned eastward.

"Bon soir, messieurs!" the commissionnaire called out, with his hat in his hand.

"Bon soir!" I answered, with my eyes fixed upon the flaring lights of the Boulevard, towards which we had turned.