On this afternoon, in the salle d’armes, he found, among other members, Louis Le Hillel, a Franco-American, to whom, through his grandmother, he was vaguely related, and with whom he had long been on terms of agreeable, though not oppressive, intimacy. Le Hillel had the face of a prelate, the manners of a debutante, and a wildcat’s fearless agility.
After a bout with him, after a shower bath, and after dressing for the evening in the club, as is customary there, Welden sailed away in another cab to dine with Maud and her father.
The Mirifique, where they lodged, had been considered smart in the days of Balzac’s beaux, and that distinction it had contrived to maintain. But then it had not succumbed to the general teutonising of such places. The management was not German, the servants were not Swiss, the chef was a chef. Though situated on that most cosmopolitan of streets, which the Rue de la Paix is, it remained really Parisian. Guests there were not considered fit merely to be robbed, but patrons to be pleased. Mainly these patrons were Russians, than which, in the managerial eye, there is nothing superior, save only those appertaining to some grande famille Américaine, for that is the ideal, and that is what the Barhytes were.
The suite which they occupied was on what Italians call the noble floor, and which the French, less translatably, describe as the first above. It gave on the street, and consisted of a vestibule, a frescoed salon, a tapestried dining-hall, and the usual sleeping rooms. The general’s quarters, and those of his daughter, were separated by the dining room and salon. But Maud’s had that which the general’s lacked, a private entrance. It gave on a stairway at the rear, and though it was supposed to be used only by Maud’s maid, Maud herself made use of it when returning unduly from Welden.
When he entered that evening, there was mounting from the street its odour of verbena and absinthe. Following that, were the cries of the hawkers who are never still. Then at once there was a waiter announcing dinner.
Already Welden had been greeted by the general. For a moment he had held Maud’s hand in his. Slender, white and very cool, it burned him. The contour of her figure and her too alluring looks, burned him still more. At the pressure of his hand on hers, she, too, must have burned. A faint flame leaped to her face, coloured it charmingly, and sank slowly away.
“And where, may one inquire, have you been?” she asked, with that clinging intonation of hers, which was a caress in itself, and which lent to her simplest words the effect of a kiss. “We rather fancied that we should see you.”
“So we did,” said the general. “But dinner appears to be ready. Welden, will you take Maud out?”
“I have been talking to a friend of yours,” Welden presently remarked, unfolding, as he spoke, a beautifully folded napkin. “Sugar Candy, she wants us to dine.”
“That is Sam Kandy’s daughter, isn’t it?” the general interjected. “Let me see, she married—”
“A very good looking man, I hear,” Maud answered. “Have you met him?” she asked, turning to Welden.
“That reminds me, Maud,” the general ran on. “At the Visitors’ Club today, a Frenchman, a painter, was introduced to me. It appears that he has seen you somewhere. God bless my soul! What an extravagant mood you put him in! He wants to paint your portrait and he says that if he may, it will be the clou—what do you call it in English—the success? Yes, the success of the Salon. A most extravagant chap. It was Colonel Floyd who introduced him. By the way, Floyd wants us to go to Frascati’s. He is to be there for July and he says—”
“Frascati’s at Havre?” said Maud.
“Yes, where else should it be? Now how devilish good that fish is, isn’t it? They do do you well here, don’t they? Floyd says—”
The general rambled on. Dishes perfectly cooked, perfectly served, succeeded each other. Coffee came. Finally the general stood up.
“Welden,” he said, “don’t let me disturb you. Stop and keep Maud company.”
He turned to the girl. “I have an engagement with Floyd. Shall you be up when I return?”
“Ah! that depends.”
“God bless my soul! Of course it does. I hardly believe I shall be late, though. Good night, Welden.”
The old gentleman passed on and out, wondering a little, as he occasionally did, why, as yet, no date had been set for the wedding. Had he known, apoplexy would have seized him. But he did not know, and fortunately never learned. Fortunately for us all there are mysteries that we never elucidate. In its inscrutable ways the Inscrutable is beneficent.
IV
A Little Frisk
The multiple brilliancies of the table were punctuated by goblets which lackeys in silk stockings, knee breeches and the saffron liveries of the Malakoffs replenished with gloved hands. A maître d’hôtel, after presenting a sturgeon from the Volga, was supervising its service. Through the hum of talk, the tinkle of silver on Sèvres, above the glittering table, rose the rich voice of the duke.
At his right was Mme. de Solférino, gorgeous and golden. At his left was Mme. de Cérisy, a massive brunette,
