“But of course Monsieur does not expect to find the young lady of whom he is in search there,” he said. “A relative is she not?”
Remembering that I had, when I first mentioned the object of my quest to him, referred to her as a relative, I nodded.
He smiled and shrugged.
“A relative of Monsieur's would scarcely be found singing at L'Abbaye,” he said. “But it is a most interesting place, entertaining and chic. Many English and American gentlemen sup there after the theater.”
I smiled and intimated that the desire to pass a pleasant evening was my sole reason for visiting the place. He was certain I would be pleased.
The doorway of L'Abbaye was not deserted, even at the “triste” hour of ten-thirty. Other cabs were drawn up at the curb and, upon the stairs leading to the upper floors, were several gaily dressed couples bound, as I had proclaimed myself to be, in search of supper and entertainment. I had, acting upon the concierge's hint, arrayed myself in my evening clothes and I handed my silk hat, purchased in London—where, as Hephzy said, “a man without a tall hat is like a rooster without tail feathers”—to a polite and busy attendant. Then a personage with a very straight beard and a very curly mustache, ushered me into the main dining-room.
“Monsieur would wish seats for how many?” he asked, in French.
“For myself only,” I answered, also in French. His next remark was in English. I was beginning to notice that when I addressed a Parisian in his native language, he usually answered in mine. This may have been because of a desire to please me, or in self-defence; I am inclined to think the latter.
“Ah, for one only. This way, Monsieur.”
I was given a seat at one end of a long table, and in a corner. There were plenty of small tables yet unoccupied, but my guide was apparently reserving these for couples or quartettes; at any rate he did not offer one to me. I took the seat indicated.