Part 6 (2/2)

(There's just one bock 'twixt you and me, and I'll catch up full soon!) What woman's lips compare to this: This st.u.r.dy seidel's frothy kiss----”

Armand Garnier, one of the men that were to dine with Cartaret to-night, had written the words of which this is a free translation, and Houdon had composed the air--he composed it impromptu for Devignes over an absinthe, after laboring upon it in secret for an entire week--but Cartaret, when he reached the note that stood for the last word here given, came to an abrupt stop; he was facing the door of the room opposite his own. He continued facing it for quite a minute, but he heard nothing.

”M. Refrogne,” he said, when he thrust his head into the concierge's box downstairs, ”if--er--if anybody should inquire for me this evening, you will please tell them that I am dining at the Cafe Des Deux Colombes.”

Nothing could be seen in the concierge's box, but from it came a grunt that might have been either a.s.sent or dissent.

”Yes,” said Cartaret, ”in the rue Jacob.”

Again the ambiguous grunt.

”Exactly,” Cartaret agreed; ”the Cafe Des Deux Colombes, in the rue Jacob, close by the rue Bonaparte. You--you're quite sure you won't forget?”

The grunt changed to an ugly chuckle, and, after the chuckle, an ugly voice said:

”Monsieur expects something unusual: he expects an evening visitor?”

”Confound it, no!” snapped Cartaret. He had been wildly hoping that perhaps The Girl might need some aid or direction that evening and might seek it of him. ”Not at all,” he pursued, ”but you see----”

”How then?” inquired the voice.

Cartaret's hand went to his pocket and drew forth one of the few franc-pieces that remained there.

”Just, please, remember what I've said,” he requested.

In the darkness of the box into which it was extended, his hand was grasped by a larger and rougher hand, and the franc was deftly extracted.

”_Merci, monsieur._”

A barely appreciable softening of the tone encouraged Cartaret. He balanced himself from foot to foot and asked:

”Those people--the ones, you understand, that have rented the room opposite mine?”

Refrogne understood but truly.

”Well--in short, who are they, monsieur?”

”Who knows?” asked Refrogne in the darkness. Cartaret could feel him shrug.

”I rather thought you might,” he ventured.

The darkness was silent; a good concierge answers questions, not general statements.

”Where--don't you know where they come from?”

There was speech once more. Refrogne, it said, neither knew nor cared. In the rue du Val de Grace people continually came and went--all manner of people from all manner of places--so long as they paid their rent, it was no concern of Refrogne's. For all the information that he possessed, the two people of whom monsieur inquired might be natives of Cochin-China. Mademoiselle evidently wanted to be an artist, as scores of other young women, and Madame, her guardian and sole companion, evidently wanted Mademoiselle to be nothing at all. There were but two of them, thank G.o.d! The younger spoke much French with an accent terrible; the elder understood French, but spoke only some pig of a language that no civilized man could comprehend. That was all that Refrogne had to tell.

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