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Page 18
Mr. Malt rose and the waiter withdrew his chair. "Thank you, _gar�on_,"
said he. "I'm coming back again--do you understand? This is not my last
meal," and the waiter bowed as if that were a statement which had to be
acknowledged, but was of the least possible consequence to him
personally. "Well, Mr. Wick," continued Mr. Malt, brushing the crumbs
from his waistcoat, "I'll say good morning, and to your ladies also. I'm
very pleased to have met you."
"Well," said momma, as he disappeared, "if every American in Paris has
decided to go to that reception there won't be much room for the
Russians."
"I suppose he's a voter and a tax-payer, and he's got his feelings,"
replied poppa. The Senator would defend a voter and a tax-payer against
any imputation not actually criminal.
"I'm glad I'm not one of his lady-friends," momma continued. "I don't
think I _could_ make myself at home on that man-of-war under the
circumstances. But I daresay he'll drag them there with him. He seems to
be just that kind of a man."
"He's a very patriotic kind of a man," replied the Senator. "It's his
patriotism, don't you see, that's giving him all this trouble. It's been
outraged. Personally I consider Mr. Malt a very intelligent gentleman,
and if he'd given me an opening as big as the eye of a needle I'm the
camel that would have gone with him, Augusta."
This statement of the Senator's struck me as something to be acted upon.
If there was to be a constant possibility of his going off with any
chance American in regular communication with the United States, our
European tour would be a good deal less interesting than I had been led
to expect. While momma was getting ready for the Louvre, therefore, I
stepped down to the office and wired our itinerary to his partner in
Chicago. "Keep up daily communication by wire in detail," I telegraphed,
"forward copies all important letters care Peters." Peters was the
tourist agent who had undertaken to bless our comings and goings. I said
nothing whatever to poppa, but I felt a glow of conscious triumph when I
thought of Mr. Malt.
We stood and realised Paris on the pavement while the fiacre turned in
from the road and drew up for us. I had every intention of being
fascinated and so had momma. We had both heard often and often that good
Americans when they die go to Paris, and that prepares one for a good
deal in this life. We were so anxious to be pleased that we fastened
with one accord upon the florist's shop under the hotel and said that it
was uniquely charming, though we both knew places in Broadway that it
couldn't be compared with. We looked amiably at the passers-by, and did
our best to detect in the manner of their faces that _esprit_ that makes
the dialogue of French novels so stimulating. What I usually thought I
saw when they looked at us was a leisurely indifferentism ornamented
with the suspicion of a sneer, and based upon a certain fundamental
acquisitiveness and ability to make a valuation that acknowledged the
desirability of our presence on business grounds, if not on personal
ones. It seemed to be a preconcerted public intention to make as much
noise in a given space as possible--we spoke of the cheerfulness of it,
stopping our ears. The cracking of the drivers' whips alone made a _feu
de joie_ that never ceased, and listening to it we knew that we ought to
feel happy and elated. The driver of our fiacre was fat and rubicund, he
wore a green coat, brass buttons, and a shiny top hat, and looked as if
he drank constantly. His jollity was perfunctory, I know, and covered a
grasping nature, but it was very well imitated, like everything in
Paris. As he whirled us, with a whip-report like a pistol-shot, into the
train of traffic in the middle of the street, we felt that we were
indeed in the city of appearances; and I put down in my mind, not having
my note-book, that Paris lives up to its photographs.
"We mustn't forget our serious object, dear," said momma, as we rolled
over the cobblestones--"our literary object. What shall we note this
morning? The broad streets, the elegant shops--_do_ look at that one!
Darling, is it absolutely necessary to go to the Louvre this morning?
There are some things we really need."
Momma addressed the Senator. I mentioned to her once that her way of
doing it was almost English in its demonstrativeness, and my other
parent told me privately he wished I hadn't--it aggravated it so.
"Augusta," said poppa, firmly, "I understand your feeling. I take a
human interest in those stores myself, which I do not expect this
picture gallery, etc., to inspire in me. But there the Louvre _is_, you
see, and it's got to be done. If we spent our whole time in this city in
mere pleasure and amusement, you would be the first to reproach
yourself, Augusta."
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