"Cream de mint," said the Major, promptly, and, his companions agreeing with alacrity, Mr. Beck again undertook the rôle of interpreter.
"Sank cream de mint," he commanded, holding up his left hand, wide-spread, "et toute suite."
And, in a surprisingly brief space of time, five infinitesimal glasses of the green liqueur stood before them.
"Mais avec du glace," remonstrated Mr. Beck.
"What's that; what's that?" inquired the Major anxiously, as the glasses were as suddenly removed by the abashed Maxime.
"Oh, ice, that's all," replied the other. "These chaps don't know what's what. Leave 'em to me. One has to know how to handle 'em."
Following the entrance of the Americans, the cabaret had gradually filled. The majority of the places at the long table were occupied now by a curious assemblage of sensation-seekers,—Germans in little cloth hats of dark green, with a curled feather cropping up behind, Englishmen in tweeds and traveling-caps, with visors fore and aft, American architects from the Quartier, so well disguised by slouch felts, pointed beards, and baggy trousers, that only a nasal tang in their slangy French betrayed their nationality, and a sprinkling of Frenchmen, each clasping the hand of a grisette. Already the high-priest of Le Ciel was in his gilded pulpit, delivering an oration thickly sown with "mes sœurs" and "mes frères" and "chers bénis," at which strangers and Parisians alike laughed uproariously, and all for one good reason—because the Frenchmen understood! Maxime returned, bringing the five liqueurs in larger glasses with chopped ice. The head angel made the round of the table, carrying, on a pole, the gilded image of a pig, and a pseudo-sexton stood leaning on the rail of a celestial stairway leading to the second floor, sprinkling the assemblage with so-called holy water from a colored brush. It was all very French, very conventional,—or unconventional, according to the point of view of the spectator,—very sacrilegious from any point of view.
With that curious instinct of womanhood which seems to recognize the indelicate, even in unfamiliar surroundings, even in an unknown tongue, the younger Miss Cogswell leaned forward suddenly and touched the Major on the hand.
"Let us go," she said.
"Yes!" agreed Appleby, buttoning his coat, "let's be moving. What do you say? Let's go to Hell—I mean," he added, with a blush, "let's try the other cabaret."