A VERY SPECIAL DINNER
At seven o'clock that evening I passed through the cafe on my way to
the American bar. There was already a good sprinkling of early diners
there, and Louis was busy as usual. Directly he saw me, however, he
came forward with his usual suave bow.
"The table in the left-hand corner," he said, "is engaged for
monsieur. I have also taken the liberty of commanding a little
dinner."
"But I am not dining here, Louis!" I protested.
Louis' expression was one of honest surprise.
"Monsieur is serious?" he inquired. "It is only a short time ago that
I was talking with Mademoiselle Delora, and she told me that she was
dining with you here."
"I am dining with Miss Delora," I answered, "but I certainly did not
understand that it was to be here."
Louis smiled.
"Perhaps," he remarked, "mademoiselle had, for the moment, the idea of
going away for dinner. If so, believe me, she has changed her
mind. Monsieur will see when he calls for her."
I passed on thoughtfully. There was something about this which I
scarcely understood. It seemed almost as though Louis had but to
direct, and every one obeyed. Was I, too, becoming one of his
myrmidons? Was I, too, to dine at his cafe because he had spoken the
word?
I made my way to number 157 precisely at half-past seven. Felicia
was waiting for me, and for a moment I forgot to ask any
questions,--forgot everything except the pleasure of looking at
her. She wore a black lace gown,--beautifully cut, and modelled to
perfection to reveal the delicate outline of her figure,--a rope of
pearls, and a large hat and veil, arranged as only those can arrange
them who have learnt how to dress in Paris. She looked at me a little
anxiously.
"You like me?" she asked. "I will do?"
"You are charming," I answered, "You take my breath away. Indeed,
mademoiselle, I have never dined with any one so charming."
She dropped me a little curtsey. Then her face clouded over.
"There is something I have to ask," she said, looking at me
ruefully. "Do you mind if we dine downstairs?"
"Louis has already told me that it is your wish," I answered.
She picked up the train of her gown. I fancied that she turned away in
order that I should not see her face.
"He was so disappointed," she murmured, "and he has been so kind, I
did not like to disappoint him."
"How is your uncle?" I asked.
"I have not yet been allowed to see him," she answered, "but they tell
me that he is better. If he has a good night to-night, to-morrow
morning I may go to him."
"I certainly hope that he will have a good night!" I remarked. "Shall
we go down?"
"If you are ready," she answered. "There, you shall carry my purse and
handkerchief while I put on my gloves. To put them on is foolish, is
it not, when one does not leave the place? Still, one must do these
things."
"Your purse is heavy," I remarked, swinging it on my finger.
"I carry always with me much money," she answered. "It is my uncle's
idea. Some day, I tell him, one of us will be robbed. He has always
one or two hundred pounds in his pocket. I have there fifty or sixty
pounds. It is foolish, you think?"
"I do," I answered. "It rather seems like asking people to rob you."
"Ah, well, they do not know!" she answered, stepping into the lift. "I
am hungry, Capitaine Rotherby. I have eaten so little to-day."
"Louis has chosen the dinner himself," I remarked, "so we shall
probably find it everything that it should be."
We found our way to the table which had been reserved for us, escorted
by one of Louis' subordinates. Louis himself was busy in the distance,
arranging the seating of a small dinner-party. He came up to us
directly, however. The waiter was serving us with caviare.
"I hope you will enjoy very much your dinner," he said, bowing. "I
have taken special pains with everything. Two dinners to-night I have
ordered with my own lips from the chef. One is yours, and the other
the dinner of our friend Monsieur Bartot."
He pointed to a table a little distance away, where Monsieur Bartot
was already dining. His back was towards us--broad and ugly, with its
rolls of fat flesh around the neck, almost concealing the low collar.
"Some day," I remarked, "our friend Monsieur Bartot will suffer from
apoplexy."
"It would not be surprising," Louis answered. "He is looking very
flushed to-night. The chef has prepared for him a wonderful
dinner. They say that he is never satisfied. We shall see to-night."
I looked away with a little gesture of disgust. Louis was summoned
elsewhere, a fact for which I was duly grateful.
"Tell me, Miss Delora," I said, "how long have you known Louis?"
"Oh! for a very long time," she answered, a little evasively. "He is
wonderful, they all say. There is no one quite like him. A rich man
has built a great restaurant in New York, and he offered him his own
price if he would go and manage it. But Monsieur Louis said 'No!' He
loves the Continent. He loves London. He will not go so far away."
"Monsieur Louis has perhaps, too, other ties here," I remarked dryly.
She looked at me across the table meaningly.
"Ah!" she said, "Louis--he does interest himself in many things. He
and my uncle always have had much to say to one another. What it is
all about I do not know, but I heard my uncle say once that Louis very
soon would be as rich as he himself."
"Tell me how long you thought of staying in London?" I asked.
"It is not sure," she answered. "My uncle's business may be settled in
a few hours, or it may take him weeks."
"The selling of his coffee?" I asked dryly.
"But certainly!" she answered.
"And from here you go to where?" I asked.
"Back to Paris," she answered, "and then, alas, to South America. It
is to be buried!"
"You have lived long in Paris?" I asked.
"Since I came there first to boarding-school," she answered. "A little
child I was, with my hair in pigtails and frocks to my knees. I have
learned to think, somehow, that Paris is my home. What I have heard of
South America I do not love. I wish very much that my uncle would stay
here."
"There is no chance of that, I suppose?" I asked.
"I think not," she answered. "In South America he is a very important
man. They speak of him one day as President."
"Had you any idea," I asked, "that he had enemies over here?"
She shook her head.
"It is not that," she said. "We will not talk of it just now. It is
not that he has enemies, but he has very, very important business to
arrange, and there are some who do not think as he thinks about
it. Shall we talk about something else, Capitaine Rotherby? Tell me
about your friends or relations, and where you live? I would like so
much to know everything."
"I am afraid there is not much to tell," I answered. "You see I am
what is called over here a younger son. I have a brother who owns the
house in which I was born, and all that sort of thing, and I have had
to go out into the world and look for my fortune. So far," I
continued, "I can't say that I have been very successful."
"You are poor, then?" she asked timidly.
"I am not rich," I answered. "Still, on the whole, I suppose for a
bachelor I am comfortably off. Then my brother has no sons, and his
health is always delicate. I do not count on that, of course, but I
might have to succeed him."
"Tell me his name?" she asked.
"Lord Welmington," I answered,--"the Earl of Welmington he is called."
"And you would be that," she asked naively, "if he died?"
"I should," I answered, "but I should be very sorry to think that
there was any chance of it. I am going to find something to do very
soon, probably at one of the embassies on the Continent. The army at
home, with no chance of a war, is dull work."
"You play games and shoot, of course," she asked, "like all your
countrymen?"
"I am afraid I do," I admitted. "I have wasted a good deal of time the
last few years. I have made up my mind definitely now, though, that I
will get something to do. Ralph--that's my brother--wants me to stand
for Parliament for the division of Norfolk, where we live, and has
offered to pay all my expenses, but I am afraid I do not fancy myself
as a politician."
"I would come and hear you speak," she murmured.
"Thank you," I answered, "but I have other accomplishments at which I
shine more. I would rather--"
I broke off in the middle of my sentence, attracted by a sudden little
exclamation from my companion. There was the sound of a heavy fall
close at hand. I sprang to my feet.
"By Jove, it's Bartot!" I exclaimed.
The man was leaning half across the table, his arms stretched out in
an unnatural fashion,--the wine which he had overturned streaming on
to the floor. His face was flushed and blotchy. His eyes were
closed. He was groaning quite audibly, and gasping.
"_Empoisonne!"_ he muttered. "_Empoisonne!"_
"Poisoned?" I repeated. "What does the fellow mean?"
I stopped short. A sudden realization of what he did mean assailed me!
He was desperately ill, there was no doubt about that. The word which
he had uttered seemed likely to be his last for some time to come.
They formed a sort of stretcher and carried him from the room. Felicia
was sitting back in her chair, white to the lips. I was feeling a
little queer myself. I called Louis, who had been superintending the
man's removal.
"Louis," I whispered in his ear, "there were two dinners which you
prepared yourself to-night!"
Louis smiled very quietly.
"You need have no anxiety, monsieur," he assured me,--"no anxiety at
all!"