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 habit. But for the
rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once
or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and
I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."

I glanced at my companion a little curiously. There was something in