“Follow me,” he said, and led us through a long, noisome passage, which was pitch dark and very unevenly paved. Then he unlocked a door and with a swirl the wind caught it and blew it back on us.
We were looking into a mean little yard, with on one side a high curving wall, evidently of great age, with bushes growing in the cracks of it. Some scraggy myrtles stood in broken pots, and nettles flourished in a corner. At one end was a wooden building like a dissenting chapel, but painted a dingy scarlet. Its windows and skylights were black with dirt, and its door, tied up with rope, flapped in the wind.
“Behold the Pavilion,” Kuprasso said proudly.
“That is the old place,” I observed with feeling. “What times I’ve seen there! Tell me, Mr Kuprasso, do you ever open it now?”
He put his thick lips to my ear.
“If the Signor will be silent I will tell him. It is sometimes open—not often. Men must amuse themselves even in war. Some of the German officers come here for their pleasure, and but last week we had the ballet of Mademoiselle Cici. The police approve—but not often, for this is no time for too much gaiety. I will tell you a secret. Tomorrow afternoon there will be dancing—wonderful dancing! Only a few of my patrons know. Who, think you, will be here?”
He bent his head closer and said in a whisper—
“The Compagnie des Heures Roses.”
“Oh, indeed,” I said with a proper tone of respect, though I hadn’t a notion what he meant.
“Will the Signor wish to come?”