“You mus n’t sit by those table,” she interposed, as they were about to drop into their accustomed seats. “Thass so, boys. But no. I mek you come at this room, like my trés bons amis. Yes. I goin’ mek for you myself one anisette and one café royale ver’ fine. Ah! I lak treat my fren’ nize. Yes. Plis come in this way.”
Madame led them into the little back room, into which she sometimes invited the especially favoured of her customers. In two comfortable armchairs, by a big window that opened upon the courtyard, she placed them, with a low table between. Bustling hospitably about, she began to prepare the promised refreshments.
It was the first time the reporters had been honoured with admission to the sacred precincts. The room was in dusky twilight, flecked with gleams of the polished, fine woods and burnished glass and metal that the Creoles love. From the little courtyard a tiny fountain sent in an insinuating sound of trickling waters, to which a banana plant by the window kept time with its tremulous leaves.
Robbins, an investigator by nature, sent a curious glance roving about the room. From some barbaric ancestor, madame had inherited a penchant for the crude in decoration.
The walls were adorned with cheap lithographs—florid libels upon nature, addressed to the taste of the bourgeoisie—birthday cards, garish newspaper supplements, and specimens of art-advertising calculated to reduce the optic nerve to stunned submission. A patch of something unintelligible in the midst of the more candid
