The Lost Ambassador | Page 7

general
appearance were absolutely different from the cafe below. The coloring
was a little sombre for a French restaurant, and the illuminations a little
less vivid. The walls, however, were panelled with what seemed to be a
sort of dark mahogany, and on the ceiling was painted a great
allegorical picture, the nature of which I could not at first surmise. The
guests, of whom the room was almost full, were all well-dressed and
apparently of the smart world. The tourist element was lacking. There
were a few men there in morning clothes, but these were dressed with
the rigid exactness of the Frenchman, who often, from choice, affects
this style of toilet. From the first I felt that the place possessed an
atmosphere. I could not describe it, but, quite apart from Louis' few
words concerning it, I knew that it had a clientele of its own, and that
within its four walls were gathered together people who were in some
way different from the butterfly crowd who haunt the night cafes in
Paris. Monsieur Carvin himself led us to a small table against the wall,
and not far inside the room. The vestiaire relieved us of our coats and
hats. A suave maitre d'hotel bent over us with suggestions for supper,
and an attendant sommelier waited by his side. Monsieur Carvin waved
them away.

"The gentlemen have probably supped," he remarked. "A bottle of the
Pommery, Gout Anglais, and some biscuits. Is that right, Louis?"
We both hastened to express our approval. Monsieur Carvin was called
by some one at the other end of the room and hurried away. Louis
turned to me. There was a curious expression in his eyes.
"You are disappointed?" he asked. "You see nothing here different? It
is all the same to you."
"Not in the least," I answered. "For one thing, it seems strange to find a
restaurant de luxe up here, when below there is only a cafe of the worst.
Are they of the same management?"
"Up here," he said, "come the masters, and down there the servants.
Look around at these people, monsieur. Look around carefully. Tell me
whether you do not see something different here from the other places."
I followed Louis' advice. I looked around at the people with an interest
which grew rather than abated, and for which I could not at first
account. Soon, however, I began to realize that although this was, at
first appearance, merely a crowd of fashionably dressed men and
women, yet they differed from the ordinary restaurant crowd in that
there was something a little out of the common in the faces of nearly
every one of them. The loiterers through life seemed absent. These
people were relaxing freely enough,--laughing, talking, and making
love,--but behind it all there seemed a note of seriousness, an intentness
in their faces which seemed to speak of a career, of things to be done in
the future, or something accomplished in the past. The woman who sat
at the opposite table to me--tall, with yellow hair, and face as pale as
alabaster--was a striking personality anywhere. Her blue eyes were
deep-set, and she seemed to have made no effort to conceal the dark
rings underneath, which only increased their luminosity. A magnificent
string of turquoises hung from her bare neck, a curious star shone in her
hair. Her dress was of the newest mode. Her voice, languid but elegant,
had in it that hidden quality which makes it one of a woman's most
attractive gifts. By her side was a great black-moustached giant, a
pale-faced man, with little puffs of flesh underneath his eyes, whose

dress was a little too perfect and his jewelry a little too obvious.
"Tell me," I asked, "who is that man?"
Louis leaned towards me, and his voice sunk to the merest whisper.
"That, monsieur," said he, "is one of the most important persons in the
room. He is the man whom they call the uncrowned king. He was a
saddler once by profession. Look at him now."
"How has he made his money?" I asked.
Louis smiled--a queer little contraction of his thin lips.
"It is not wise," he said, "to ask that question of any whom you meet
here. Henri Bartot was one of the wildest youths in Paris. It was he who
started the first band of thieves, from which developed the present
hoard of apaches."
"And now?" I asked.
"He is their unrecognized, unspoken-of leader," Louis whispered. "The
man who offends him to-night would be lucky to find himself alive
to-morrow."
I looked across the room curiously. There was not a single redeeming
feature in the man's face except, perhaps, the suggestion of brute,
passionate force which still lingered about his thick, straight lips and
heavy jaw.