The Lost Ambassador | Page 4

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