A CAFE IN PARIS
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 _maitres d'hotel_ all came
crowding up for a word of greeting. A table in the best part of the
room, which was marked _reserve_, 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 _maitre d'hotel_, 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.