It was winter when I turned down the narrow street again one afternoon and entered the door.
The room was silent. The cozy interior had remained much the same as it had been in the past; the walls of polished cherry, the tables, the piano, were in their places as of old, but the roses on the bar were artificial, and a self-feeding stove roared in one corner.
The faithful Louis came to greet me. He looked haggard and grayer; the only other occupant of the room, a man with a hard jaw and a diamond ring, lounged in the rocking-chair, muttering to himself over a cocktail.
A glance at Louis told me all.
“And so they have all gone?” I said.
“Yes, monsieur;” he paused, and his eyes filled.
“Ah! it is not no more now like old days, is it?” he continued, forcing a smile, and his hand trembled, clutching his napkin. “Madame de Bréville, you know, she sold the bar? Yes, she has gone avay. I hafn’t seen her once,” and he looked up sadly.
“And Mademoiselle Marcelle, she is no longer in Paris; she vent avay now three years to St. Petersburg,” he continued.
“Once I seen de Countess. She come back to see me. Poor Countess, she is sick—sick like one dead—so pale, so white, yust like dot napkin. And now she lives mit Madame Brébant. Ah! Himmel! How I laf sometimes at dot Madame Brébant, she vas alvays making some fun. And de Spanish gentleman, Monsieur Gonsalez! He got married. Ya, he vas married to a fine lady with plenty money.”
“And the editor?” I asked.