THE TOYMAKER FROM LEIPZIG
In the front row of balcony tables at the Café des Ambassadeurs was one which had been transformed into a veritable bower of pink roses. The florists had been at work upon it since early in the afternoon, and their labors were only just concluded as the guests of the restaurant were beginning to arrive. Henri, the chief maître d'hôtel, had personally superintended its construction. He stood looking at the result of their labors now with a well-satisfied aspect.
"But it is perfect," he declared. "The orders of Monsieur Freudenberg have indeed been delightfully carried out. You will present the account as usual, mademoiselle," he directed the florist, who in her black frock, a little hot and flushed with her labors, was standing by his side. "Remember monsieur is well able to pay."
"It is, perhaps, a prince who dines in such state?" the girl inquired.
The maître d'hôtel smiled.
"It is, on the contrary," he told her, "a maker of toys from Germany."
She made a little grimace.
"And to think that my back aches, that I have pricked myself so," she exclaimed, showing the scarred tips of her fingers, "for the sake of a toymaker from Germany! But it is not like you, Henri, to disturb yourself so for anything less than a prince."
Henri, who was a sleek and handsome man, with black moustache and imperial, shook his head sadly.
"Ah! mademoiselle," he said, "when you have lived as long as I, you will know that the times indeed have changed. It is no longer the princes of the world to whom one gives one's best service. It is those who carry the heaviest money bags who command it."