The man from New York listened with interest; and, when the conversationalist paused for breath, ran his hand into his pocket and brought forth something that clinked musically.
"It's worth one hundred francs to me to go to town in the baron's car," he said.
The chauffeur looked at the open hand, at the car, at the restaurant door. His conscience struggled within him and was silenced.
"Voyons, M'sieu, we will consider." He tiptoed to a window, looked into the dining-room, and returned with the air of a comic opera conspirator.
"C'est bien, M'sieu. They arrive at the salad. There is always the dessert, the coffee, the cigar, the liqueur. One can do it, but it is to be hoped that M'sieu and his friends do not object to speed."
That was a wild ride to Paris,—up hill and down, at top speed, with never a slackening for corners or for foot passengers. The Americans were dropped where they could take cabs and the hundred francs changed hands.
"Much obliged. Good luck to you," said the man from New York.
The chauffeur consulted his watch. "Provided always that they have not quarrelled," he murmured anxiously—and the machine shot away into the night.
Down in the heart of Paris, the Café de Paris, the Café Paillard, and the Ritz are the restaurants in which one may best study purple and fine linen. There are other cafés famed for cuisine and cellars, but my Lady of the Chiffons finds them dull, and in the creed of a Parisienne dulness heads the list of mortal sins.