The Triflers | Page 2

as ever, he was restless.
Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a listlessness foreign to him.
In the first place, he missed Edhart, the old maître d'hôtel who for a
decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of
foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian
epicure.
The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte's attention to the fact that
in his own life a decade had also passed than anything else could
possibly have done. Between birthdays there is only the lapse each time
of a year; but between the coming and going of the maître d'hôtel there
was a period of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed to
vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first came to Nice, and now he
was thirty-two. He became thirty-two the moment he was forced to
point out to the new management his own particular table in the corner,
and to explain that, however barbarous the custom might appear, he
always had for breakfast either a mutton chop or a beefsteak. Edhart
had made him believe, even to last year, that in this matter and a
hundred others he was merely expressing the light preferences of a
young man. Now, because he was obliged to emphasize his wishes by
explicit orders, they became the definite likes and dislikes of a man of
middle age.
For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, and played so much in the
next week that he went stale and in the club tournament put up the
worst game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he boarded the train for
Monte Carlo, and before eleven o'clock had lost five thousand francs at
roulette--which was more than even he could afford for an evening's

entertainment that did not entertain. Without waiting for the croupier to
rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to clear his head, walked
all the way back to Nice along the Cornice Road. Above him, the
mountains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the road hung
suspended between them like a silver ribbon. Yet even here he did not
find content.
Monte visited the rooms every evening for the next three days; but, as
he did not play again and found there nothing more interesting than the
faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen for the past ten years,
the programme grew stupid.
So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, although it was several
weeks ahead of his schedule. As a matter of fact, it was several weeks
too early. The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in the
Champs Élysées were in much the condition of a lady half an hour
before an expected caller. The broad vista to the triumphal arches was
merely the setting for a few nurses and their charges. The little iron
tables were so deserted that they remained merely little iron tables.
Of course the boulevards were as always; but after a night or two
before the Café de la Paix he had enough. Even with fifty thousand
people passing in review before him, he was not as amused as he
should have been. He sipped his black coffee as drowsily as an old
man.
In an effort to rouse himself, he resolved to visit the cafés upon
Montmartre, which he had outgrown many years ago. That night he
climbed the narrow stairs to l'Abbaye. It was exactly as it had been--a
square room bounded by long seats before tables. Some two dozen
young ladies of various nationalities wandered about the center of the
room, trying their best, but with manifest effort, to keep pace to the
frenzied music of an orchestra paid to keep frenzied. A half-dozen of
the ladies pounced upon Monte as he sat alone, and he gladly turned
over to them the wine he purchased as the price of admission. Yvonne,
she with the languid Egyptian eyes, tried to rouse the big American.
Was it that he was bored? Possibly it was that, Monte admitted. Then
another bottle of wine was the proper thing. So he ordered another

bottle, and to the toast Yvonne proposed, raised his glass. But the wine
did him no good, and the music did him no good, and Yvonne did him
no good. The place had gone flat. Whatever he needed, it was nothing
l'Abbaye had to offer.
Covington went out into the night again, and, though the music from a
dozen other cafés called him to come in and forget, he continued down
the hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of the whole city. It
was clear that he was out of tune with Paris.
As he came into the Place de l'Opera he ran into the