Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 40: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

666 cobbled court wherein plantain trees thrived in green tubs and many children played. At one of several doorways inside, the girl paused, and informed George that here, up three flights, was her home. And she added a suggestion that, since he had been so good as to wheel her groceries for her, he condescend to partake of them in her studio. “Studio! So, then, mademoiselle is an artist? And what do you compose? Land- scapes? Sonnets? Songs?” “Among other things, monsieur, I com- pose an excellent salad! Will you deign to try one?” George deigned. He dragged the peram- bulator into the hallway, and then lifted out the various packages and bore them up the successive flights of stone steps. Pres- ently he stood in a big, rather bare room, which contained some wonderful old tables and chairs, a modern and very uncomforta- ble looking divan, a worn rug or two, a few etchings—signed—tacked onto the walls, an immense black cat sleeping on a cush- - jon, and little else. “Atiendez, monsieur! Have the good- ness to be seated, and I will return in a jiffy.” In a surprisingly short time, and before he had had opportunity to examine the unusually clever etchings, the small person reappeared in a doorway and announced that the salad was “‘ composed.” The room in which they sat down to eat was not much bigger than a clothes closet. There was just room for a table, four chairs, and an odd little buffet. It was papered in a warm red, and lighted by candles. The furniture was of black Flemish oak, and there were on the walls two nocturnes in oil. A charming little nook, George thought, as he seated himself. “ And now, I introduce myself. - Mme, Volontiers, at the service of Monsieur—” “Le Comte de Vaudreuil,” George sup- plemented, bowing over his plate. If he had thought to create any excite- ment in little Mme. Volontier’s breast, he was mistaken. She nodded brightly, and set to work to serve the salad. To be sure, thought George, in Paris a mere count is of no more import than one more mite in ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, a large cheese. ‘And anyhow, he would have much preferred to make himself known under his own name. The salad was good to look at, delicious to eat. The garlic was merely hinted at, the red wine vinegar just sufficient to miti- gate the blandness of the golden oil. A few tiny slices of peeled tomato added a touch of color, The lettuce broke crisply. Then there were little white rolls with fresh but- ter, a bottle of homely, honest white wine, a morsel of Brie cheese, and afterward cof- fee, and a liqueur served from a droll, pot- bellied flask, and surprisingly good ciga- rettes from a silver box bearing a coronet. All the time madame talked vivaciously, and about herself. But she found time to learn that her host was paying his first visit to Paris; that he was stopping at the Three Queens, which caused her to raise shoulders, eyebrows and hands, and to cry, “ Oo, la-la!” and also—which she plainly disbelieved—that he knew not one single woman, although he had been here for quinze jours—a fortnight. And she was properly shocked to learn that he had yet to visit the Dead Cat, the Little Hell, or any of its sister cabarets. She promised to take his education in hand. An hour later, when he had left, he wondered angrily why he had not kissed her. She was kissable enough, as she stood saying good-by, her provocative little face upturned, eyes half closed, on tiptoe in pretended effort to make herself as tall as he. But, stupidly, he had merely scribbled her address on a card, and left one of his own—or, rather, one of Count Vaudreuil’s, which he did in part to get even with him— and departed. Up to a certain point, George wasn’t at all shy with women; it was easy for him to meet them, and all that. But at critical moments a cursed shyness over- came him. | Two hours later, raging up and down his drawing-room, he forgot all about little Mme. Volontiers. For, awaiting him, was a cable. It was from his father, and read: Disgraceful orgies reprinted in local papers. Allowance stopped. Shall pay no bills. It was well for the sleek Sangrado that he was not present when the now distracted Gomichooks.com