The sirenic tone of voice and the gesture of his hands indicated the
seraphic pleasure to be obtained only in one of those secluded spots.

The American turned inquiringly to the girl.

'When I was here before,' she said, 'I was at a table just upstairs to
the right. Have you one there, Monsieur Beauchamp?'

_Nom d'une pipe_! She knew him. And she was beautiful, this English
lady. As he personally escorted them upstairs, with the importance of
a Lord Chamberlain at a Court function, Monsieur Beauchamp speculated
on the flirtatious potentialities of the young woman. If she were only
clever enough to be fickle, what a source of profit she might be to the
Café Rouge! And was she not in appearance much like Mademoiselle
Valerie, for whom a member of the Chamber of Deputies had blown out the
brains of Monsieur P---- de l'Académie Française?

With the assistance of a waiter, he ushered them to a table almost
hidden by a pillar, where a crimson-shaded light sent a soft glow that
was guaranteed to make the most of a woman's eyes. Monsieur Beauchamp
with his own hands brought them the menu card, while the waiter stood
expectantly, crouched for an immediate start as soon as he received the
signal. A small waitress appeared with the butter and rolls, and made
her way underneath the arms of the proprietor and the waiter like a tug
running round two ocean liners. Monsieur Beauchamp could recommend the
_Barquettes Norvégienne_--No? Madame did not so desire? Of course
not. He frowned terrifically at the waiter, who glared ferociously at
the diminutive waitress. _Morbleu_! What imbecile suggested
_Barquettes Norvégienne_? Monsieur Beauchamp mentioned other dishes as
an overture to the meal, waxing increasingly wrathy towards the waiter