And so, on a certain night in mid-April, it came to pass that Spangler's Café, gay and full of the din that sustains the genus New Yorker in his contention that there is no other place in the world fit to live in, had among its patrons a number of the persons connected with this story of the City of Masks.
First of all, there was the new leader of the orchestra, a dapper, romantic-looking young man in a flaming red coat. Ah, but you should have seen him! The admirable Mirabeau, true Frenchman that he was, had performed wonders with pomades and oils and the glossy brilliantine. The sleek black hair of the little Prince shone like the raven's wing; his dark, gipsy eyes, rendered more vivid by the skilful application of "lampblack," gleamed with an ardent excitement; there was colour in his cheeks, and a smile on his lips.
At a table near the platform on which the orchestra was stationed, sat the Honourable Cornelius McFaddan, his wife, and a congenial party of friends. In a far-off corner, remote from the music, you would have discovered the Marchioness and her companions; the bland, perpetually smiling Mr. Hendricks who wrote the book, his wife, and the lovely, blue-eyed Jane.
By a strange order of coincidence, young Mr. Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis, quite mellow and bereft of the power to focus steadily with eye or intellect, occupied a seat,—and frequently a seat and a half,—at a table made up of shrill-voiced young women and bald-headed gentlemen of uncertain age who had a whispering acquaintance with the head waiter and his assistants.
The Countess du Bara, otherwise Corinne, entertained a few of the lesser lights of the Opera and two lean, hungry-looking critics she was cultivating against an hour of need.
At a small, mean table alongside the swinging door through which a procession of waiters constantly streamed on their way from the kitchen, balancing trays at hazardous heights, sat two men who up to this moment have not been mentioned in these revelations. Very ordinary looking persons they were, in business clothes.
One of them, a sallow, liverish individual, divided his interest between two widely separated tables. His companion was interested in nothing except his food, which being wholly unsatisfactory to him, relieved him of the necessity of talking about anything else. He spoke of it from time to time, however, usually to the waiter, who could only say that he was sorry. This man was a red-faced, sharp-nosed person with an unmistakable Cockney accent. He seemed to find a great deal of comfort in verbally longing for the day when he could get back to Simpson's in the Strand for a bit of "roast that is a roast."
The crowd began to thin out shortly after the time set for the lifting of curtains in all of the theatres. It was then that the sallow-faced man arose from his seat and, after asking his companion to excuse him for a minute, approached Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. That gentleman had been dizzily ogling a dashing, spirited young woman at the table presided over by Mr. McFaddan, a circumstance which not only annoyed the lady but also one closer at hand. The latter was wanting to know, in some heat, what he took her for. If he thought she'd stand for anything like that, he had another guess coming.
"May I have a word with you?" asked the sallow man, inserting his head between Stuyvesant and the protesting young woman.
"The bouncer," cried the young woman, looking up. "Good work. That's what you get for making eyes at strange—"