The Mischief-Maker Part 21

"Naturally," Herr Freudenberg agreed. "You do me no less than justice, my dear Sir Julien. What I do hope that you have firmly fixed in your mind is that I, despite your halfpenny papers, your novelists seeking for a new sensation, and your weird middle cla.s.s, I, Carl Freudenberg, maker of toys, am the honest and sincere friend of England. The work which I ask you to do for me would be as much in the interests of your country as of my own, only when I say your country, I mean your country governed by the political party in which I have faith and confidence. I tell you frankly that an England governed as she is at present is a country I loathe. If I raise my hand against her--not in war, mind, but in diplomacy--if I strive to humble her to-day, it is because I would cover if I could the political party who are in power at this moment with disrepute and discredit. Why should you yourself shrink from aiding me in this task? They are the party in whose ranks--high in whose ranks, I might say--are those who stooped with baseness, with deceit unmentionable, to rid themselves of you. Therefore, I say strike. Come with me and you shall help. And when the time comes, I think I can promise you that I can show you a way back, a way which you have never guessed."

Julien looked across the table long and earnestly.

"Herr Freudenberg," he said, "if I answer you in the negative, it is because of your own words. The love of your country, you told me not long ago, is your religion. For her good you would make use even of those you call your friends. Now I am sincere with you. I do not know whether to trust you or not. For that reason I cannot attempt to discuss this matter with you. I do not ask even that you explain yourself."

"You mean that at any rate you cannot trust me entirely?" Herr Freudenberg replied. "Well, if you had, I should have been disappointed in you. Still, I have said things that were in my heart to say to you.

We send now for Mademoiselle Ixe. Before very long we talk together again."

Herr Freudenberg touched the bell. A waiter appeared almost immediately.

"Find mademoiselle," he ordered. "Tell her that we wait impatiently."

Mademoiselle was not far away. Herr Freudenberg pa.s.sed his arm through hers.

"We return, I think," he said. "This little room has served its purpose."

Julien on the landing tried to make his adieux, but his host only laughed at him. Mademoiselle Ixe held out her hand and led him into the room by her side.

"He wishes it," she murmured softly. "He has so few nights here, one must do as he desires."

The little party returned to their table in the corner. Somehow or other, their coming seemed to enliven the room. There was more spirit in the music, more animation in the conversation. Albert walked with a sprightlier step. Then Julien, in his pa.s.sage down the room, received a distinct shock. He stopped short.

"Kendricks, by Jove!" he exclaimed.

Kendricks, sitting alone at a small table, with a bottle of champagne in front of him and a huge cigar in his mouth, waved his hand joyfully.

Then he glanced at his friend's companions, frowned for a moment, and gazed fixedly at Herr Freudenberg.

"Julien, by all that's lucky!" he called out. "And I haven't been in Paris four hours! I called at your hotel and they told me you were out.

Sit down."

"I am not alone," Julien began to explain,--

Herr Freudenberg turned round.

"You must present your friend," he declared. "He must join us."

Julien hesitated for a moment.

"Kendricks," he said, "this is my friend, Herr Freudenberg."

The two men shook hands. Kendricks as yet had scarcely taken his eyes off Herr Freudenberg's face.

"I am glad to meet you, sir," he remarked. "It is odd, but your face seems familiar to me."

Herr Freudenberg leaned over the table.

"My friend, Mr. Kendricks," he said, "you are, I believe, a newspaper man, and you should know the world. When you see a face that is familiar to you in Paris, and in this Paris, it goes well that you forget that familiarity, eh?"

Kendricks nodded.

"It is sound," he agreed. "I will join you, with pleasure."

"Mademoiselle," Herr Freudenberg continued, "permit me to introduce my new friend, Mr. Kendricks. Mr. Kendricks--Mademoiselle Ixe. We will now begin, if it is your pleasure, to spend the evening. There is room in our corner, Mr. Kendricks. Come there, and presently Mademoiselle Ixe will sing to us, mademoiselle with the yellow hair there will dance, the orchestra shall play their maddest music. This is Paris and we are young. Ah, my friends, it comes to us but seldom to live like this!"

They all sat down together. Herr Freudenberg gave reckless orders for more wine. The _chef d'orchestre_ was at his elbow, Albert hovered in the background. Kendricks leaned over and whispered in his friend's ear.

"Julien, who is our friend?"

"A manufacturer of toys from Leipzig," Julien answered grimly.

"The toys that giants play with!" Kendricks muttered. "I have never forgotten a face in my life."

"Then forget this one for a moment," Julien advised him quickly. "This is not a night for memories. I have lived with the ghosts of them long enough."

Their party became larger. The little dancing girl came to drink wine with them and remained to listen to Herr Freudenberg. A friend of Mademoiselle Ixe--a tall, fair girl in a blue satin gown--detached herself from her friends and joined them. Herr Freudenberg, with his arm resting lightly around Mademoiselle Ixe's waist, talked joyously and incessantly. It was not until some one lifted the blind and discovered that the sun was shining that they spoke of a move. Then, as the _vestiaire_ came hurrying up with their coats and wraps, Herr Freudenberg lifted his gla.s.s.

"One last toast!" he cried. "Dear Marguerite, my friends, all of you--to the sun which calls us to work, to the moon which calls us to pleasure, to the love that crowds our hearts!"

He raised his companion's hand to his lips and drew her arm through his.

"Come," he cried, "to the streets! We will take our coffee from the stall of Madame Huber."

CHAPTER XIV

THE MORNING AFTER

Kendricks and Julien drove down from the hill in a small open victoria. The sun had risen, but here and there were traces of a fading twilight. A faint mauve glow hung over the sleeping streets. The sunlight as yet was faint and the morning breeze chilly. As they pa.s.sed down the long hill, tired-looking waiters were closing up the night cafes. Bedraggled revelers crept along the pavements with weary footsteps.

With every yard of their progression, the meeting between the two extremes of life seemed to become more apparent. The children of the night--the weary, unwholesome products of dissipation, rubbed shoulders with the children of the morning--girls, hatless, in simple clothes, walking with brisk footsteps to their work; market women, brown-cheeked and hearty, setting out their wares upon the stalls; the youth of Paris, blithe and strenuous, walking light-footed to the region of warehouses and factories. Julien and Kendricks looked out upon the little scene with interest. Both had been sleepy when they had left the cafe, but there was something stimulating in the sight of this thin but constant stream of people. Kendricks sat up and began to talk.

"Julien," he declared, "this Paris never alters. It's a queer little world and a rotten one. We are here just at the ebbing of the tide.

Don't you feel the hatefulness of it--the thin-blooded scream for pleasure which needs the lash of these painted women, these gaudy cafes, this yellow wine all the time? My G.o.d! and they call it pleasure! Look at these people going to their work, Julien. There's where the red blood flows. They're the people with the taste of life between their teeth. Can't you see them at their pleasures--see them sitting in a beer-garden with a girl and a band, their week's money in their pocket, and the knowledge that they've earned it? Perhaps sometimes they look up the hill and wonder at the craze for it all. Did you see the stream coming up to-night--automobiles, victorias, carriages of every sort; pale-faced men who had lunched too well, dined too well, flogging their tired systems in the craze for more excitement, more pleasure; eating at an unwholesome hour, smoking sickly cigarettes, kissing rouged lips, listening to the false music of that hard laughter? Look at those girls arm in arm, off to their little milliner's shop. Hear them laugh! You don't hear anything like that, Julien, on the top of the hill."

"Of course," Julien remarked, stifling a yawn, "if you've come to Paris to be moral--"

"Not I!" Kendricks broke in roughly. "Bless you, I'm one of the worst.

A wild night in Paris calls me even now from any part of the world. But Lord, what fools we are! And, Julien, we get worse. It's the old people who keep these places going."

"The older we get," Julien replied, "the harder we have to struggle for our joys."

Kendricks wheeled suddenly in his place.

"Tell me how long you have known Herr Freudenberg?" he insisted. "How many times have you been seen with him? Is it the truth that you met him to-night for the first time?"