“Then there is the garden—jolly place, with electric lights—where you can get a pretty fair meal. It is quite unique—nothing like it in Paris or anywhere else that I can think of, and I’ve seen a good many—” here de Meneval hastily checked himself. “It’s quite the thing to give suppers to the young ladies of the ballet—and some of them are not so young, either—in the gardens. The proprietor, of course, encourages it, and the girls are permitted to come out in their stage costumes to have an ice or a glass of wine. All the fellows in my regiment do it; it’s considered quite the thing, and their mothers and sisters come out to the Pigeon House to see them do it. If it wasn’t for the support given the place by the garrison it would have to close up, and then Melun would be duller than ever. The Pigeon House is unconventional, but perfectly respectable.”
“Possibly,” drily replied Monsieur Bouchard, “but not probably.”
“Good heavens, sir! you are mistaken. Léontine has been teasing me for a month past to take her out there to supper some evening, and I’ve promised to do so this very next week. Do you think I’d take my wife to any place that wasn’t respectable?”
De Meneval was getting warm over this, and Monsieur Bouchard was forced to admit that he supposed the Pigeon House was respectable.
“But that doesn’t prevent these jolly little suppers to the young ladies of the ballet, and especially those given to them by the officers. I assure you it is mere harmless eating and drinking. The poor girls have to work hard, and when they get through of an evening I dare say very few of them have two francs to buy something to eat. So a number of us have got into the way of giving these poor souls supper after the performance. Even Major Fallière goes to these suppers, and you know his nickname in the regiment.”
“No, I know of him only as a very correct, middle-aged man. I wish you had the same sort of reputation as Major Fallière.”
“Well, he is called by the juniors old P. M. P.—that is to say, the Pink of Military Propriety. And Fallière is my chum, and he goes to these little suppers.”
De Meneval brought this out with an air of triumph, but Monsieur Bouchard remained coldly unresponsive, and then de Meneval let the cat out of the bag.
“And I say, Monsieur Bouchard, the proprietor of the Pigeon House sent me in my account the other day—nineteen hundred francs nineteen centimes—and I haven’t got the money to pay it.”
De Meneval lay back and waited for the explosion. Monsieur Bouchard started from his chair, bawling: