We were sitting in a little restaurant in the gay city--which is not a
gay city any more, but a city of dejection, a city that knows there is a
war going on and not so long since could hear the guns. There are,
however, corners where, for the moment, contentment or, at any rate,
visitations of mirth are possible, and this little restaurant is one of
them. Well, we were sitting there waiting for coffee, the room (for it
was late) now empty save for the table behind me, where two elderly
French bourgeois and a middle-aged woman were seated, when suddenly the
occupant of the chair which backed into mine and had been backing into
it so often during the evening that I had punctuated my eating with
comments on other people's clumsy bulkiness; suddenly, as I say, this
occupant, turning completely round, forced his face against mine and,
cigarette in hand, asked me for a light. I could see nothing but face--a
waste of plump ruddy face set deep between vast shoulders, a face
garnished with grey beard and moustache, and sparkling moist eyes behind
highly magnifying spectacles. Very few teeth and no hair. But the
countenance as a whole radiated benignance and enthusiasm; and one
thing, at any rate, was clear, and that was that none of my resentment
as to the restlessness of the chair had been telepathed.
Would I do him the honour of giving him a light? he asked, the face so
close to mine that we were practically touching. I reached out for a
match. Oh, no, he said, not at all; he desired the privilege of taking
the light from my cigarette, because I was an Englishman and it was an
honour to meet me, and--and----"_Vive l'Angleterre!_" This was all very
strange and disturbing to me; but we live in stirring times, and nothing
ever will be the same again. So I gave him the light quite calmly and
with great presence of mind said, "_Vive la France!_" Then he grasped my
hand and thanked me for the presence of the English army in his country,
the credit for which I endeavoured fruitlessly to disclaim, and we all
stood up and bowed to each other severally and collectively, and resumed
our own lives again.
But the incident had been so unexpected that I, at any rate, could not
be quite normal just yet, for I could not understand why, out of four of
us, all English, and one a member of the other sex, so magnetic to
Frenchmen, I should have been selected either as the most typical or the
most likely to be cordial--I who only a week or so ago was told
reflectively by a student of men, gazing steadfastly upon me, that my
destiny must be to be more amused by other people than to amuse them.
Especially, too, as earlier in the evening there had been two of our
men--real men--in khaki in the room. Yet there it was: I, a dreary
civilian, had been carefully selected as the truest representative of
Angleterre and all its bravery and chivalry, even to the risk of
dislocation of the perilously short neck of the speaker.
It was therefore my turn to behave, and I whispered to the waiter to
fill three more glasses with his excellent _Fine de la maison_ (not the
least remarkable in Paris) and place them on the next table, with our
compliments. This he did, and the explosion of courtesy and
felicitations that followed was terrific. It flung us all to our feet,
bowing and smiling. We clinked glasses, each of us clinking six others;
we said "_Vive la France!_" and "_Vive l'Angleterre_." We tried to
assume expressions consonant with the finest types of our respective
nations. I felt everything that was noblest in the English character
rushing to my cheeks; everything that was most gallant and spirited in
the French temperament suffused the face of my friend until I saw
nothing for him but instant apoplexy. Meanwhile he grasped my hand in
his, which was very puffy and warm, and again thanked me for all that
_ces braves Anglais_ had done to save Paris and _la belle France_.
Down we all sat again, and I whispered to our party that perhaps this
was enough and we had better creep away. But there was more in store.
Before the bill could be made out--never a very swift matter at this
house--I caught sight of a portent and knew the worst. I saw a waiter
entering the room with a tray on which was a bottle of champagne and
seven glasses. My heart sank, for if there is one thing I cannot do, it
is to drink the sweet champagne so dear to the bourgeois palate. And
after the old _fine_, not before it! To the French mind these
irregularities are nothing; but to me, to us....
There however it was, and, in a moment, the genial enthusiast was again
on his feet. Would we not join them, he asked, in drinking to the good
health and success of the Allies in a glass of champagne? Of course we
would. We were all on our feet again, all clinking glasses again, all
crying "_Vive la France!_" "_Vive l'Angleterre!_" to which we added, "_A
bas les Allemands!_" all shaking hands and looking our best, exactly as
before. But this time there was no following national segregation, but
we sat down in three animated groups and talked as though a ban against
social intercourse in operation for years had suddenly been lifted. The
room buzzed. We were introduced one by one to Madame, who not only was
my friend's wife, but, he told us proudly, helped in his business,
whatever that might be; and Madame, on closer inspection, turned out to
be one of the capable but somewhat hard French women of her class, with
a suggestion somewhere about the mouth that she had doubts as to whether
the champagne had been quite a necessary expense--whether things had not
gone well enough without it, and my contribution of _fine_ the fitting
conclusion. Still she made a brave show at cordiality. Then we were
introduced to the other gentleman, who was Madame's cousin and had a son
at the Front, and, on hearing this, we shook hands with him again, and
so gradually we disentangled and at last got into our coats and made our
adieux.
When I had shaken his feather-bed hand for the last time my new friend
gave me his card. It lies before me now as I write and I do not mean to
part with it:--
BAPTISTE GRIMAUD,
DELEGUE CANTONAL,
9A PLACE GAMBETTA.
_Pompes Funebres._
Well, if ever I come to die in Paris I know who shall bury me. I would
not let any one else do it for the world. Warm hearts are not so common
as all that!
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Illustration: FAITH.
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