“Stop, sir, I have something to tell you.”
“Well,” said Mascarin, throwing himself back in his chair with an air of affected impatience, “let us have it.”
“We had eight gents to dinner, all howling swells, but my master was the biggest masher of the lot. Madame was the only woman at table. Well, by ten o’clock, they had all had their whack of drink, and then they told the porter to keep the courtyard clear. What do you think they did then? Why, they threw plates, glasses, knives, forks, and dishes bang out of the window. That is a regular swell fashion, so the waiter at Potier’s told me, and was introduced into Paris by a Russian.”
Mascarin closed his eyes and answered languidly, “Go on.”
“Well, sir, there was one gent who was a blot on the whole affair. He was tall, shabbily dressed, and with no manners at all. He seemed all the time to be sneering at the rest. But didn’t Madame make up to him just. She kept heaping up his plate and filling his glass. When the others got to cards, he sat down by my mistress, and began to talk.”
“Could you hear what they said?”
“I should think so. I was in the bedroom, and they were near the door.”
“Dear me,” remarked Mascarin, appearing much shocked, “surely that was not right?”
“I don’t care a rap whether it was right or not. I like to hear all about the people whom I engage with. They were talking about a M. Paul, who had been Madame’s friend before, and whom the gentleman also knew. Madame said that this Paul was no great shakes, and that he had stolen twelve thousand francs.”
Mascarin pricked up his ears, feeling that his patience was about to meet its reward.