the big panels of the rich gold ceiling exquisitely painted.
At one of the tables two very chic young women are dining with a young Frenchman, his hair and dress in close imitation of the Duc d’Orleans. These poses in dress are not uncommon.
A strikingly pretty woman, in a scarlet-spangled gown as red as her lips, is dining with a well-built, soldierly-looking man in black; they sit side by side as is the custom here.
The woman reminds one of a red lizard—a salamander—her “svelte” body seemingly boneless in its gown of clinging scales. Her hair is purple-black and freshly onduléd; her skin as white as ivory. She has the habit of throwing back her small, well-posed head, while under their delicately penciled lids her gray eyes take in the room at a glance.
She is not of the Quarter, but the Taverne du Panthéon is a refuge for her at times, when she grows tired of Paillard’s and Maxim’s and her quarreling retinue.
“Let them howl on the other bank of the Seine,” says this empress of the half-world to herself, “I dine with Raoul where I please.”
And now one glittering, red arm with its small, heavily-jeweled hand glides toward Raoul’s open cigarette case, and in withdrawing a cigarette she presses for a moment his big, strong hand as he holds near her polished nails the flaming match.
ALONG THE SEINE
Her companion watches her as she smokes and talks—now and then he leans closer to her, squaring his broad shoulders and bending lower his strong, determined face, as he listens to her,—half-amused, replying to her questions leisurely, in short, crisp sentences. Suddenly she stamps one little foot savagely under the table, and, clenching her jeweled hands, breathes heavily. She is trembling with rage; the man at her side hunches his great shoulders, flicks the ashes from his cigarette, looks at her keenly for a moment, and then smiles. In a moment she is herself again, almost penitent; this little savage, half Roumanian, half Russian, has never known what it was to be ruled! She has seen men grow white when she has stamped her little foot, but this big Raoul, whom she loves—who once held a garrison with a handful of men—he does not tremble! she loves him for his devil-me-care indifference—and he enjoys her temper.