r that name are barely recognisable by authentic
connoisseurs, by Rabelaises of sensitive esophagi, by true lovers of
subtly concocted gin and vermouth and bitters. But the Viennese, soggy
with acid beer, his throat astringentized by strong coffee, knows not
the difference. And so the _Amerikan-bar_ flourishes.

[Illustration: VIENNA]

It was here that I discovered Gabrielle, a sad little French girl,
alone and forsaken in the midst of merriment, drinking Dubonnet and
dreaming of the Boulevard Montparnasse. I bought her another
Dubonnet--what stranger would have done less? In her was epitomized the
sadness of the stranger in Vienna. Lured by lavish tales of gaiety, she
had left Paris, to seek an unsavoury fortune in the love marts of
Vienna. But her dream had been broken. She was lonely as only a Parisian
can be, stranded in an alien country. She knew scarcely a score of
German words, in fact no language but her own. Her youth and coquetry
did not avail. She was an outsider, a deserted onlooker. She spoke
tenderly of the Cafe du Dome, of Fouquet's, the Cafe d'Harcourt, Marigny
and the Luxembourg. She inquired sentimentally about the Bal Bullier.
She was pretty, after the anaemic French type of beauty, with pink
cheeks, pale blue eyes and hair the colour of wet straw. She had the
slender, shapely feet of the French cocotte. Her stockings were of thin
pink silk. Her slender, soft fingers were without a ring. Her jewelry,
no doubt, had long since gone to the money lender. She seemed childishly
happy because I sat and talked to her. Poor little Gabrielle! Her
tragedy was one of genuine bereavement, or perhaps the worst of all
tragedies--loneliness. I shall never think again of Vienna without
picturing that stranded girl, sipping at her reddish drink in the
_Amerikan-bar_ in the Kaisergarten. But her case is typical. The
Viennese are not hospitable to strangers. They are an intimate,
self-sufficient people.

Let us turn, however, from the little Gabrielle to a more fascinating
and exquisite creature, to a happier and more buoyant denizen of
Viennese night life, to a lady of more elegant attire. In short, behold
Fraeulein Bianca Weise. In her are the alkaloids of gaiety. She
irradiates the joyfulness of the city. In her infancy she was hummed to
sleep with snatches from the "Wiener Blut," the booziest waltz in all
Christendom. Bianca is tall and catlike, but deliciously proportioned.
Her hair is an alloy of bronze and gold