The Lost Ambassador | Page 2

very
slim, was delightful, and she walked as though her feet touched the
clouds. Her laugh, which I heard distinctly as she brushed by me only a
few feet away, was like music. Of all the people who had passed me, or
whom I had come across during my fortnight's stay in Paris, there was
no one half so attractive. The girl was absolutely charming; the man,
remarkable not only in himself, but for a certain air of repressed
emotion, which, while it robbed his features of the dignity of repose,
was still, in a way, fascinating. They entered a waiting motor-car
splendidly appointed, and I heard the man tell the tall, liveried footman
to drive to the Ritz. I leaned forward a little eagerly as they went. I
watched the car glide off and disappear, watched it until it was out of
sight, and afterwards, even, watched the spot where it had vanished.
Then, with a little sigh, I turned back once more into the great hall.
There seemed to be no one left now of any interest. The women had
become ordinary, the men impossible. With a little sigh I too aimlessly
descended the steps, and stood for a moment uncertain which way to
turn.
"Monsieur is looking for a light?" a quiet voice said in my ear.
I turned, and found myself confronted by a Frenchman, who had also
just issued from the building and was himself lighting a cigarette. He
was clean-shaven and pale, so pale that his complexion was almost
olive. He had soft, curious-looking eyes. He was of medium height,
dark, correctly dressed according to the fashion of his country, although
his tie was black and his studs of unusual size. Something about his
face struck me from the first as familiar, but for the moment I could not
recall having seen him before.
"Thank you very much," I answered, accepting the match which he
offered.
The night was clear, and breathlessly still. The full yellow moon was

shining in an absolutely cloudless sky. The match--an English wax one,
by the way--burned without a flicker. I lit my cigarette, and turning
around found my companion still standing by my side.
"Monsieur does not do me the honor to recollect me," he remarked,
with a faint smile.
I looked at him steadfastly.
"I am sorry," I said. "Your face is perfectly familiar to me, and yet--No,
by Jove, I have it!" I broke off, with a little laugh. "It's Louis, isn't it,
from the Milan?"
"Monsieur's memory has soon returned," he answered, smiling. "I have
been chief maitre d'hotel in the cafe there for some years. The last time
I had the honor of serving monsieur there was only a few weeks ago."
I remembered him perfectly now. I remembered, even, the occasion of
my last visit to the cafe. Louis, with upraised hat, seemed as though he
would have passed on, but, curiously enough, I felt a desire to continue
the conversation. I had not as yet admitted the fact even to myself; but I
was bored, weary of my search, weary to death of my own company
and the company of my own acquaintances. I was reluctant to let this
little man go.
"You visit Paris often?" I asked.
"But naturally, monsieur," Louis answered, accepting my unspoken
invitation by keeping pace with me as we strolled towards the
Boulevard. "Once every six weeks I come over here. I go to the Ritz,
Paillard's, the Cafe de Paris,--to the others also. It is an affair of
business, of course. One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what
he eats, that one may teach the art."
"But you are a Frenchman yourself, Louis," I remarked.
"But, monsieur," he answered, "I live in London. Voila tout. One
cannot write menus there for long, and succeed. One needs inspiration."

"And you find it here?" I asked.
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"Paris, monsieur," he answered, "is my home. It is always a pleasure to
me to see smiling faces, to see men and women who walk as though
every footstep were taking them nearer to happiness. Have you never
noticed, monsieur," he continued, "the difference? They do not plod
here as do your English people. There is a buoyancy in their footsteps,
a mirth in their laughter, an expectancy in the way they look around, as
though adventures were everywhere. I cannot understand it, but one
feels it directly one sets foot in Paris."
I nodded--a little bitterly, perhaps.
"It is temperament," I answered. "We may envy, but we cannot acquire
it."
"It seems strange to see monsieur alone here," Louis remarked. "In
London, it is always so different. Monsieur has so many
acquaintances."
I was silent for a moment.
"I am here in search of some one," I