“You are quite right,” answered Caracal. “It will increase your prestige. Besides, you’ll see her at supper. My valet will hand her the invitation. Helia would rather go off alone, but she will come with us. Phil will be of the party, too!”
“Well, come along! We have an hour to wait. Let’s go in somewhere,” said the duke.
They were just coming into the Place Blanche. A café, through its open doors, wrapped them round with the smell of alcohol. Before them a red-winged mill seemed grinding fire and flame. Beyond, streets went climbing up Montmartre, mountain of guano. Right and left, along the Boulevard, incredible dens held out their blazing signs in line, like the “Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin” of monstrous nights.
“Here is a cabaret artistique; let’s go in,” said Caracal; “it’s immense!”
“Come on!” assented the duke.
The atmosphere, as of a den of animals, caught them by the throat. The conversations were deafening, but the voice of the proprietor rose above the clamor. He welcomed visitors, even ladies, with a torrent of insults. It was the height of chic to receive his avalanche of insolence with a smiling face.
“What do these two carrion come for?” he cried, pointing to Caracal and the duke, who, in his surprise, was on the point of getting angry, to the great joy of the public.
“Let’s sit in this corner; we can talk better,” Caracal said to him, as much at his ease in this asphyxiating air as a fish in water. They sat down and the brutal voice and the clamors of the public found occupation elsewhere.
“Talk?” asked the duke. “What in the world should we talk about here?”
“About Helia,” answered Caracal; “here’s to your amours, monseigneur!” And he raised the glass which a waiter, dressed like an Academician, had brought him.