Certainly, the apartment in which presently we found ourselves, in an avenue by the Étoile, was extremely elegant, and crowded with men and women in evening dress, who looked highly respectable. Among them were a few French officers in uniform and one English officer. The hostess was a charming-looking lady, with snow-white hair. There was a little music, a little dancing, and polite conversation. It was decorous and dull.
At the end of an hour I spoke to Brown.
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”
He informed me in a whisper that if I went I should be losing something very good in the way of an adventure.
“This is, undoubtedly, one of the most criminal haunts in Paris,” he said. “I can smell abomination! Something melodramatic will happen before long, or I’ll eat my hat.”
I was surprised, and alarmed. I had no desire to be at home in a criminal haunt in time of war. I decided even more firmly to go, and went to take leave of the charming lady with the snow-white hair.
She seemed vexed that I should desire to go so soon, but seeing that I was decided, made a somewhat curious request.
“Do you mind going out by the garden entrance—through the French windows? We do not care to show lights through the front door. C’est la guerre!”
I went out through the garden entrance, followed by Brown, who said I was missing the fun.
It was dark in the garden, and I stumbled on the way to a little garden gate, twenty yards away from the house.