"And they come from all over the world—Russia, Belgium, Spain," murmured Alida nervously. "What do they want?"
"Thank heaven!" cried De Barsac, radiantly; "then you are not there for the treatment!"
"Treatment for what?" I groaned.
"Hydrophobia!"
I wound my arms around my shrinking children.
"It is the hotel where all the best people go who come to Paris for Pasteur's treatment," he said, trying to look grave; but Dulcima threw back her pretty head and burst into an uncontrollable gale of laughter; and there we stood on the sidewalk, laughing and laughing while passing students grinned in sympathy and a cloaked policeman on the corner smiled discreetly and rubbed his chin.
That evening, after my progeny were safely asleep, casting a furtive glance around me I slunk off to my old café—the Café Jaune. I hadn't been there in over twenty years; I passed among crowded tables, skulked through the entrance, and slid into my old corner as though I had never missed an evening there.
They brought me a Bock. As I lifted the icy glass to my lips, over the foam I beheld Williams, smiling.
"Eh bien, mon vieux?" he said, pleasantly.
"By gad, Williams, this seems natural—especially with you sitting next."