They were a trifle early. Few of the regular habitués de maison were present yet, and they had their choice of tables. Ken selected the one at which he had sat the other evening. One by one the regulars appeared and, recognizing Kendall, smiled and nodded. Monsieur Robert appeared with the Spanish tragedian, and Monsieur Robert came over to shake hands and be very cordial. Ken presented him to Maude and watched her face with amusement when the handsome young actor bent over her hand and kissed it. Then entered the elderly critic with the pointed white beard who was invariably accompanied by a beautiful girl—a new beautiful girl every evening. And then appeared Monsieur Jacques, swinging his artificial leg hilariously, waving his cane, and with his hat awry, as was its custom. He shouted greetings to all, then, espying Kendall, he rushed to his chair, clapped the captain on the back, and, turning, harangued the room. His subject was Americans. The Americans were heroic. They had appeared in France’s hour of need. They were shedding their blood in France’s quarrel, and France should proclaim her gratitude. Had not these so-much-to-be-loved Americans saved Paris from the boche. But certainly! That very day.... Vive l’Amérique!... Suddenly, in a transport of enthusiasm, he threw his arm about Kendall’s neck and kissed him resoundingly on both cheeks....
Kendall was frightfully embarrassed, especially when he heard the room laugh until the dishes rocked. He was angry, but before he could give vent to his anger his eye encountered Maude Knox, mirthful tears rolling down her cheeks. Then he himself laughed, if a bit ruefully. Jacques threw himself into a seat across the table and began talking in his wild way to Maude Knox, who spoke French very well indeed. There was no need for introductions here. Jacques never thought of such a thing and Maude appeared perfectly willing to forgo the ceremony. Kendall was rather out of it temporarily. He looked across at Monsieur Robert, who was bobbing his head and laughing and writing on the back of a carte de jour.... Then he arose and handed it to Kendall.
Monsieur had a trifle of English of which he was very proud, and this communication, relating to Jacques, was couched in that language. Ken read it and then laughed in real earnest, for it made this rather amazing announcement:
“It is not a bad boy, but he is a few mad!”
What more could one ask of a single sentence?
“If you are looking for something un-American you get it here,” he said to Maude.
“I like it.... I’m enjoying every second of it,” she said, delightedly. “They’re just like children.”
“But Jacques here has an artificial leg, a silver plate in the crown of his head, the Médaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre,” he said.
Jacques, meantime, had possessed himself of Monsieur Robert’s note and, leaping to his feet, was heaping scorn and derision on the young actor’s head, while Monsieur Robert feigned terror and made as though he would hide under the table.
“Are they always like this,” Maude asked, “or is it relief—now that Paris seems to be safe?”