The Mischief-Maker Part 17

He slipped a crumpled note into her fingers, so quietly and unostentatiously that it was there and in her pocket before any one had time to notice it. She went out murmuring to herself.

"He is a prince, this monsieur--a veritable prince!"

"For your dinner," Henri announced, as they seated themselves in their places, "I have no word to tell you. I spare you, as you see, the barbarity of a menu. What will come to you, monsieur and madame, is at least of our best. I can promise that. And the wine is such as I myself have selected, knowing well the taste of monsieur."

"And of madame also, I trust?" Herr Freudenberg remarked.

"Ah! monsieur," Henri continued, "when monsieur is not in Paris, madame is invisible. Not once since I last had this pleasure of waiting upon you, have I had the joy of seeing her."

Herr Freudenberg looked across the table at his companion with twinkling eyes.

"This is a city of conspirators," he declared. "You make a man vain and happy and joyous at the same time. Let your dinner be served, then, Henri. Since I was in Paris last I have eaten many times, but I have not dined."

The _maitre d'hotel_ departed, but for the next hour or so his eyes were seldom far away from the table where sat his most esteemed client.

Once or twice, others of the diners sent for him.

"Henri," one asked, and then another, "tell us, who is it that dines like a prince under the canopy of pink roses?"

Henri smiled.

"Monsieur," he replied, "it is Herr Carl Freudenberg of Leipzig."

"Herr Carl Freudenberg of Leipzig--but who is he?"

"He is a great manufacturer of toys, monsieur."

"A German!" one muttered.

"It is they who are spoiling Paris," another grumbled.

"They have at least the money!"

One woman alone shook her head.

"It is not money only," she murmured, "which buys these things here from Henri."...

The companion of Herr Carl Freudenberg was, without doubt, as charming as she appeared, for Herr Freudenberg certainly enjoyed his dinner as a man should. Nor were those lines of humor engraven about his mouth for nothing, to judge by the frequent peals of laughter from mademoiselle.

Towards the close of dinner, Henri himself carried to them a superb violet ice, with real flowers around the dish and an electric light burning in the middle.

"For two days, madame," he announced, "our chef has dreamed of this. It is a creation."

"It is exquisite!" mademoiselle cried, with a gesture of delight.

"Never in my life have I seen anything so wonderful."

"Henri," Herr Freudenberg said in an aside, "you will present my compliments to the chef. You will shake him by the hand from me. You will double the little affair which pa.s.ses between us. Tell him that it comes from one who appreciates the work of a great artist, even though his French thickens a little in his throat."

Henri bowed low.

"If monsieur's body is German," he declared, "his soul at least belongs to the land of romance."

They were alone again and the girl leaned across the table.

"Monsieur," she murmured, "it is cruel of you to come so seldom. You see what you do? You spoil the keepers of our restaurants, you steal away the hearts of your poor little companions, and then--one night or two, perhaps, and it is over. Monsieur Freudenberg has gone. The earth swallows him."

"Back to my toys, mademoiselle," he whispered. "One has one's work."

She looked at him long and tenderly.

"Monsieur," she said, "it is two months, a week and three days since you were in Paris. Since then I have sung and danced, night by night, but my heart has never been gay. Come oftener, monsieur, or may one not sometimes cross the frontier and learn a little of your barbarous country?"

For the first time the faintest shadow of gravity crossed his face.

"Mademoiselle," he replied, "alas! The world is full of hard places.

Behold me! When I am here, I am your devoted and admiring slave, but believe me that when I leave Paris and set my face eastwards, I do not exist. Dear Marguerite, it hurts me to repeat this--I do not exist."

She looked down into her plate.

"I understand," she murmured. "You said it to me once before. Have I not always been discreet? Have I ever with the slightest word disobeyed you?"

"Nor will you ever, dear Marguerite," he declared confidently, "for if you did it would be the end. In the city where I make my toys, life as we live it here is not known. It is not recognized. And there is one's work in the world."

She looked up from her plate. Her expression had changed.

"It was foolish of me," she whispered. "To-night is one of those nights in Heaven for which I spend all my days longing. I think no more of the future. You are here. Tell me, from here--where?"

"To the Opera. I have engaged the box that you prefer. We arrive for the last act of 'Samson et Dalila' and for the ballet."

"And afterwards?"

"To the Abbaye. After that, there is the Rat Mort--Albert must not be disappointed--and a new place, they tell me. One must see all these new places."

"And we leave here soon?"

"You are impatient!"

"Only to be alone with you," she answered. "Even those few moments in the automobile are precious."

He smiled at her across the table. She was very pretty with her fair hair and dark eyes, very Parisian, and yet with a shade of graceful seriousness about her eyes and mouth.

"Dear Marguerite," he said, "I wait only for one of my agents who comes to speak to me on a matter of business. He is due almost at this moment. After he has been here, then we go. Cannot you believe," he whispered, dropping his voice a little and leaning slightly across the table, "that I, too, will love to feel your dear fingers in mine, your lips, perhaps, for a moment, as we pa.s.s to the Opera?"

"It is a joy one must s.n.a.t.c.h," she murmured.

"There is no joy in life," he replied, "which is not the sweeter for being s.n.a.t.c.hed, and s.n.a.t.c.hed quickly."

"And you a German!" she sighed.

Henri appeared once more, and after him Estermen. Herr Freudenberg, with a word of excuse to his companion, turned to greet the newcomer.