It was barely eight o'clock, the following evening, when Maxime entered L'Enfer. He was tastefully dressed in an excessively checked suit and a silk hat, and he wore a full black beard and spectacles, and rolled his r's in speaking, in the fashion of the South. The demon at the door, unsuspecting, greeted him effusively as "cher damné," and piloted him to a table at the further end of the cabaret. The table had a ground-glass top, through which shone electric lights which kept changing mysteriously from green to red and back again, and the whole interior of L'Enfer was of imitation rock, diversified by grinning faces. It was very artistic, and, what was better, very dark. Maxime was unnecessarily mistrustful of his false beard.
At this early hour, he was the only visitor. An obliging demon supplied him with a green chartreuse, and, upon invitation, procured another for himself, and took the opposite seat.
The conversation, which began with commonplaces, soon assumed a more intimate tone. Monsieur, it appeared, was from Toulouse, but this was not his first visit to L'Enfer. In fact, a place so amusing—what? He never missed it when he came to Paris.
Oh, but monsieur was too good!
No, on the contrary, it was for his own pleasure. It suited him to a marvel, blague à part! And often, he had had a curious fancy—to be a demon himself, imagine! To serve in the cabaret for just one evening, by way of variety—for, as for himself, he gave less for a life without variety than did a fish for an apple. That was the reason he had sometimes thought of applying to the management for permission to—but then, of course, the idea was fantastic, and, without doubt, quite impossible.
Oh, quite impossible, monsieur!
But, after all, why not? Not the management, naturally. That was out of the question, it went without saying. But an obliging demon, perhaps—a bon type, who understood these eccentricities, as a man of the world—one who would consent to a brief illness—for one night only—and who would provide a substitute, in the person of monsieur! Fantastic—what?—rigolo, mon Dieu!—very rigolo, and, of course, quite impossible.
In some mysterious fashion a louis suddenly made its appearance on the illuminated table.
Oh, quite impossible, monsieur! Evidently, affairs did not arrange themselves like that. Monsieur must understand that the pourboires which one gained in Hell were enormous—but enormous! It would be to throw away a fortune, to give up one's place for an entire evening. For forty francs, perhaps—but then it was certain that monsieur would not care—