“But first”—she halted, and shook her finger at him, “before we go on—wherever we’re going—you haven’t told me—you must promise not to run away from me in case we should happen to run across Williams or some other colored patient and I answer his greeting.”
“I suppose I do owe you an apology for my outburst at the reception,” Hamilton replied. “But seriously, I don’t know if I shouldn’t run away. That happens to be one thing I feel strongly about. I suppose you’ve never lived in the South.”
Meadows shook her head.
“Well, then, you can have no conception of what the negro problem means to the Southerner. Of course I shouldn’t have lost my temper. A person never should do that. And the French, who before the war probably saw a negro once a year—and then a genius, one of those freaks that is apt to come out of any race—don’t understand.”
“Well, maybe I don’t understand, either. And another thing I don’t understand—where you’re taking me.”
“Oh, I thought we’d have lunch at some restaurant and then take in a vaudeville.”
“Let’s just ramble through the Luxembourg Gardens,” suggested Meadows. “It’s only a few blocks away and it will give us the afternoon to ourselves.”
“All right, the Luxembourg Gardens it will be then,” agreed Hamilton. “Perhaps you could suggest the restaurant. As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing Paris mostly by night, and specializing in only indecent cafés.”
Meadows did know just the café, only a few blocks down Rue de St. Jacques and around the corner, a relatively obscure place for most Americans, but the haunt of tourists “who really know,” and the less impecunious students. It was a rather unimposing place, from the outside. One entered it after stumbling down a flight of decrepit stairs and opening an ancient door. But inside everything was inviting. It was called the Black Cat and everything was done in black and orange, with black cats forming the principal motif of ornament. Black cats ran around the wall in a stencilled pattern and basked in front of the cozy fireplace in the form of cast-iron statuettes. Hamilton noticed that a log was blazing briskly. Black cats grimaced from under the shades of the table lamps and from the salt and pepper shakers. And, as Hamilton sat down, he noticed that even the backs of the chairs were ferocious chats noirs.
The proprietor himself, or so it seemed—no other person in the world could possibly have taken such an interest in the patrons—greeted them with a smile and conducted them personally to a table. He was a short, dark, stout man, with carefully curled jet-black mustache, who smiled and bowed perpetually, like an automaton.