"I trust my voice does not begin to grate upon you?" he asked solicitously. "Much talking affects my uvula."
I made a trite inquiry.
He answered that, since I was so pressing, he would!
"Listen," he resumed, after a sip.
* * * * *
I am not in a position to say whether the young lady humoured the Editor by rejoicing, but she obeyed him by going forth. Her portrait was duly published, La Volx professed ignorance of her whereabouts from the moment that she left the rue Louis-le-Grand, and a prize of two thousand francs was to reward the first stranger who said to her, "Pardon, you are mademoiselle Girard!" In every issue the Public were urged towards more strenuous efforts to discover her, and all Paris bought the paper, with amusement, to learn if she was found yet.
At the beginning of the week, misgivings were ingeniously hinted as to her fate. On the tenth day the Editor printed a letter (which he had written himself), hotly condemning him for exposing a poor girl to danger. It was signed "An Indignant Parent," and teemed with the most stimulating suggestions. Copies of La Voix were as prevalent as gingerbread pigs at a fair. When a fortnight had passed, the prize was increased to three thousand francs, and many young men resigned less promising occupations, such as authorship and the fine arts, in order to devote themselves exclusively to the search.
Personally, I had something else to do. I am an author, as you may have divined by the rhythm of my impromptu phrases, but it happened at that time that a play of mine had been accepted at the Grand Guignol, subject to an additional thrill being introduced, and I preferred pondering for a thrill in my garret to hunting for a pin in a haystack,
Enfin, I completed the drama to the Management's satisfaction, and received a comely little cheque in payment. It was the first cheque that I had seen for years! I danced with joy, I paid for a shampoo, I committed no end of follies.
How good is life when one is rich—immediately one joins the optimists! I feared the future no longer; I was hungry, and I let my appetite do as it liked with me. I lodged in Montmartre, and it was my custom to eat at the unpretentious Bel Avenir, when I ate at all; but that morning my mood demanded something resplendent. Rumours had reached me of a certain Café Eclatant, where for one-franc-fifty one might breakfast on five epicurean courses amid palms and plush. I said I would go the pace, I adventured the Café Eclatant.