He struck the bell. Ferradji appeared.
"Coffee for these gentlemen," ordered M. Le Mesge.
He handed us a box, gorgeously decorated in the most flaming colors, full of Egyptian cigarettes.
"I never smoke," he explained. "But Antinea sometimes comes here. These are her cigarettes. Help yourselves, gentlemen."
I have always had a horror of that pale tobacco which gives a barber of the Rue de la Michodière the illusion of oriental voluptuousness. But, in their way, these musk-scented cigarettes were not bad, and it was a long time since I had used up my stock of Caporal.
"
Here are the back numbers of Le Vie Parisienne" said M. Le Mesge to me. "Amuse yourself with them, if you like, while I talk to your friend."
"Sir," I replied brusquely, "it is true that I never studied with Berlioux. Nevertheless, you must allow me to listen to your conversation: I shall hope to find something in it to amuse me."
"As you wish," said the little old man.
We settled ourselves comfortably. M. Le Mesge sat down before the desk, shot his cuffs, and commenced as follows: