“Why not?” Caracal asked, interrupting the reading of his despatches, which he had good reasons for knowing by heart.
“Mademoiselle Helia did not say why. Mademoiselle only said that she would not come. She has gone out with M. Socrate.”
“Very well!” said Caracal, dismissing his valet.
“With Socrate! Poor Helia!” thought Phil.
“Well, messieurs, it will be less gay without a lady,” Caracal observed; “but since we are here, let’s do Montmartre, will you?”
“Come with us,” said the duke.
So all three “did” Montmartre.
Caracal knew it all thoroughly. The cabaret was his home. He entered offhand; he had his own manner of opening the door and bidding a friendly good day to the proprietor amid the tables.
“There’s Caracal!” These words, pronounced in the smoke of these little cafés by some décadent accompanied by a painted girl, swelled his heart with pride. Even the duke envied him this quasi-royalty which Paris confers on its elect.
Caracal loved the cabaret rosses, where some rickety little monsieur advances on the platform, opens his snarling mouth and, hammering his words that not a syllable may be lost, narrates his little nastiness to the public.