of
many of the people, and that the supper was the best meal which I had
eaten in Paris, I was very little more amused. The nigger, the Spanish
dancing-girl with her rolling eyes, the English music-hall singer with
her unmistakable Lancashire accent, went through the same
performance. The gowns of the women were wonderful,--more wonderful
still their hats, their gold purses, the costly trifles which they
carried. A woman by our side sat looking into a tiny pocket-mirror of
gold studded with emeralds, powdering her face the while with a
powder-puff to match, in the centre of which were more emeralds, large
and beautifully cut. Louis noticed my scrutiny.

"The wealth of France," he whispered in my ear, "is spent upon its
women. What the Englishman spends at his club or on his sports the
Frenchman spends upon his womankind. Even the _bourgeoisie_, who
hold their money with clenched fists like that," he gesticulated,
striking the table, "for their women they spend, spend freely. They
do all this, and the great thing which they ask in return is that they
are amused. After all, monsieur," he continued, "they are
logical. What a man wants most in life, in the intervals between his
work, is amusement. It is amusement that keeps him young, keeps him in
health. It is his womankind who provide that amusement."

"And if one does not happen to be married to a Frenchwoman?"

Louis nodded sympathetically.

"Monsieur is feeling like that," he said, as he sipped his wine
thoughtfully. "Yes, it is very plain! Yet monsieur is not always
sad. I have seen him often at my restaurant, the guest or the host of
many pleasant parties. There is a change since those days, a change
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps
of the Opera House."

I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the
society of a very popular little _maitre d'hotel_, holiday
making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few
steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which
travelled around the room, were weary.

"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is
there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or
tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the
story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love
to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because
their womankind desire it, and because it is their habi