“Have the goodness to interpret for me,” said Lecky to the Napoleon of Anglo-Saxon theatres. “Mr. Cecil Thorold, of the Devonshire Mansion, London, the Grand Hotel, Paris, the Hôtel Continental, Rome, and the Ghezireh Palace Hotel, Cairo, presents his compliments, and wishes a box for the gala performance at the Opéra to-night.”
Belmont translated, while Lecky handed the card.
“Owing to the unfortunate indisposition of a Minister and his wife,” replied the young man gravely, having perused the card, “it happens that I have a stage-box on the second tier.”
“You told me yesterday——” Belmont began.
“I will take it,” said Lecky in a sort of French, interrupting his interpreter. “The price? And a pen.”
“The price is twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Gemini!” Belmont exclaimed in American. “This is Paris, and no mistake!”
“Yes,” said Lecky, as he filled up the blank cheque, “Paris still succeeds in being Paris. I have noticed it before, Mr. Belmont, if you will pardon the liberty.”
The young man opened a drawer and handed to Lecky a magnificent gilt card, signed by the Minister of Fine Arts, which Lecky hid within his breast.
“That signature of the Minister is genuine, eh?” Belmont asked the young man.