I read this sign, traced by the hand of some accomplice
“’Armykitchen of M. Timbuctoo,
“’Formerly
Cook to H. M. the Emperor.
“‘A Parisian
Artist. Moderate Prices.’
“In spite of the despair that was gnawing at
my heart, I could not help laughing, and I left my
negro to his new enterprise.
“Was not that better than taking him prisoner?
“You have just seen that he made a success of
it, the rascal.
“Bezieres to-day belongs to the Germans.
The ‘Restaurant Timbuctoo’ is the beginning
of a retaliation.”
The five friends had finished dinner, five men of
the world, mature, rich, three married, the two others
bachelors. They met like this every month in
memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted
until two o’clock in the morning. Having
remained intimate friends, and enjoying each other’s
society, they probably considered these the pleasantest
evenings of their lives. They talked on every
subject, especially of what interested and amused
Parisians. Their conversation was, as in the
majority of salons elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what
they had read in the morning papers.
One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardon,
a celibate living the Parisian life in its fullest
and most whimsical manner. He was not a debauche
nor depraved, but a singular, happy fellow, still young,
for he was scarcely forty. A man of the world
in its widest and best sense, gifted with a brilliant,
but not profound, mind, with much varied knowledge,
but no true erudition, ready comprehension without
true understanding, he drew from his observations,
his adventures, from everything he saw, met with and
found, anecdotes at once comical and philosophical,
and made humorous remarks that gave him a great reputation
for cleverness in society.
He was the after dinner speaker and had his own story
each time, upon which they counted, and he talked
without having to be coaxed.
As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit
verre half full beside his plate, half torpid in an
atmosphere of tobacco blended with steaming coffee,
he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between
two whiffs:
“A curious thing happened to me some time ago.”
“Tell it to us,” they all exclaimed at
once.
“With pleasure. You know that I wander
about Paris a great deal, like book collectors who
ransack book stalls. I just look at the sights,
at the people, at all that is passing by and all that
is going on.
“Toward the middle of September—it
was beautiful weather—I went out one afternoon,
not knowing where I was going. One always has
a vague wish to call on some pretty woman or other.
One chooses among them in one’s mental picture
gallery, compares them in one’s mind, weighs
the interest with which they inspire you, their comparative
charms and finally decides according to the influence
of the day. But when the sun is very bright and
the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to
make calls.
