“Who are they?” I asked Marcel, carelessly enough.
With a thump he set down the radishes. “They, m’sieu?” Scornfully, “they are Americans who are come since m’sieu went away. While m’sieu was in Italy they came to live in the Rue Vavin, near by. They are friends of Monsieur Roger Elmont—ce beau garçon! But mademoiselle is an angel—but of a goodness! Only last Sunday she gave me two francs ten, and always when she takes coffee here in the evening—but she is very good for me.”
“And the others? The mother and brother?”
“Pah! what would you? Canaille!—tourists—but it is not her brother, m’sieu. It is the futur of mademoiselle, saints dieux!”
“Not possible! But are you sure, Marcel? How do you know?”
“Listen, m’sieu”—he lowered his voice—“m’sieu eats his crevettes, and I shall recount to him: listen. A month ago, before one began to take the repasts outside at Café aux Oranges, there came one evening these three and Monsieur Roger. They are gay—but of a gaiety! They order dinner and—mais si! champagne and champagne—first Monsieur Roger, then this young man, Stuart, he calls himself, I think. This Monsieur Stuart, of champagne he himself orders two bottles. But they are friendly, he and Monsieur Roger; they are like brothers.
“Then—I am serving them, I and Little-John—all of a sudden something happens. Something is said—I am out, searching their dessert, I do not hear. But Little-John hears, and he murmurs to me, stupidly in high voice as he always does, ‘it is the futur of Mademoiselle, that one with the made shoulders. Madame has come from telling Monsieur Roger.’ This, then, is the cause of the quick silence, and of Monsieur Roger’s pale face, and mademoiselle’s blushes—ah, but she is beautiful, mademoiselle; m’sieu finds her brunette! For myself, to me she seems blonde. Such blue eyes and the skin so white, like camelia, though certainly her hair——”
“Never mind,” I said, buttering a heel of bread, “I can see her hair.”
“But perfectly, m’sieu. I was saying, Monsieur Roger is all of a surprise with the news. He has not known mademoiselle is engaged. But yes, says madame with victory, since two months—since the ship in which they came from America. This—how you say?—Chames? Chames Stuart was on that ship. Madame is an intimate of M. Stuart’s mother. To Monsieur Roger, madame tells with what singular air of double entendre, this Chames Stuart is a man to be trusted. A good man. Monsieur Roger throws back his head and laughs—very long.
“But, m’sieu, I do not like to hear that laugh. Myself, I am foolish for Monsieur Roger, like all the rest at Café aux Oranges, more than all the other garçons I am foolish for him. Do I not know him since he came, poor obscure student, five years ago? But of a certainty! And that laugh, it is not the laugh of Monsieur Roger—rich, successful, grand artiste. No! it is a laugh that hides tears, suffering maybe. I do not know. Surely it makes me regard Monsieur Roger more closely, while he says, with what legereté, ‘but certainly madame! one knows that you would give Julie to none but a good man—that you would assure yourself as to his goodness.’