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The Mischief Maker, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Book 1 - Chapter 11. The Toymaker From Leipzig |
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_ BOOK ONE CHAPTER XI. THE TOYMAKER FROM LEIPZIG In the front row of balcony tables at the Cafe des Ambassadeurs was one which had been transformed into a veritable bower of pink roses. The florists had been at work upon it since early in the afternoon, and their labors were only just concluded as the guests of the restaurant were beginning to arrive. Henri, the chief _maitre d'hotel_, had personally superintended its construction. He stood looking at the result of their labors now with a well-satisfied aspect. "But it is perfect," he declared. "The orders of Monsieur Freudenberg have indeed been delightfully carried out. You will present the account as usual, mademoiselle," he directed the florist, who in her black frock, a little hot and flushed with her labors, was standing by his side. "Remember monsieur is well able to pay." "It is, perhaps, a prince who dines in such state?" the girl inquired. The _maitre d'hotel_ smiled. "It is, on the contrary," he told her, "a maker of toys from Germany." She made a little grimace. "And to think that my back aches, that I have pricked myself so," she exclaimed, showing the scarred tips of her fingers, "for the sake of a toymaker from Germany! But it is not like you, Henri, to disturb yourself so for anything less than a prince." Henri, who was a sleek and handsome man, with black moustache and imperial, shook his head sadly. "Ah! mademoiselle," he said, "when you have lived as long as I, you will know that the times indeed have changed. It is no longer the princes of the world to whom one gives one's best service. It is those who carry the heaviest money bags who command it." "Well, well," she replied, "that is perhaps true. Yet in our little shop in the Rue de la Paix we do not always find that it is those with the heaviest money bags who pay us most generously for our flowers. I would sooner serve a bankrupt aristocrat than a wealthy shopkeeper. If they pay at all, these aristocrats, they pay well." Henri stretched out his hands. "Mademoiselle, there are shopkeepers who are also princes. My client of this evening is one of those. Behold, he comes! Pardon!" The man for whom these great preparations had been made stood in the entrance of the restaurant, waiting for the woman who was giving her cloak to the _vestiaire_. He was tall and thin, dressed rather severely, with a black tie and short coat, a monocle which hung from his neck with a black ribbon. His face was unusually long, his eyes deep-set, his mouth set firm on a somewhat protuberant jaw, with lines at the corners which somehow suggested humor. When he saw Henri he nodded. "Once more, Henri," he remarked, with a little smile, "once more in my beloved Paris!" "Monsieur is always welcome," Henri declared, bowing to the ground. "Paris is the gayer for his coming." "You are indeed a nation of courtiers!" Herr Carl Freudenberg exclaimed. "What German _Oberkellner_ would have thought of a speech like that to a Frenchman finding himself in Berlin! Ah! Henri, you try, all of you, to spoil me here. Is it not so, mademoiselle?" he added, turning with a bow and a smile to the girl who stood now by his side. "Henri here speaks honied words to me always. The wonder to me is that I am ever able to tear myself away from this city of fascination." "If we could keep monsieur," the girl murmured, smiling at Henri, "I think that we should all be very well content." Herr Freudenberg made a little grimace. "But my toys!" he cried. "Who is there in Germany could make such toys as I and my factory people? The world would be sad indeed--the world of children, I mean--if my factory were to close down or my designers should lose their cunning." "Is it the greatest ambition of monsieur," the girl asked, "to amuse and make happy the world of children? Have not the world of grown people some claims?" "Monsieur will, I trust, and madame," Henri declared, as they moved slowly forward, "find much to admire in the table which has been prepared for them this evening. It is by the orders of monsieur so enclosed that here one may talk without fear of observation. And the perfume of these roses, every one of which has been selected, is a wonderful thing. It is indeed a work of art." Herr Freudenberg turned deliberately on one side where the little flower girl was still lingering. "Mademoiselle," he said, "something tells me that it is you whom we have to thank for this adorable creation. It is indeed a work of supreme art. If mademoiselle would permit!" He slipped a crumpled note into her fingers, so quietly and unostentatiously that it was there and in her pocket before any one had time to notice it. She went out murmuring to herself. "He is a prince, this monsieur--a veritable prince!" "For your dinner," Henri announced, as they seated themselves in their places, "I have no word to tell you. I spare you, as you see, the barbarity of a menu. What will come to you, monsieur and madame, is at least of our best. I can promise that. And the wine is such as I myself have selected, knowing well the taste of monsieur." "And of madame also, I trust?" Herr Freudenberg remarked. "Ah! monsieur," Henri continued, "when monsieur is not in Paris, madame is invisible. Not once since I last had this pleasure of waiting upon you, have I had the joy of seeing her." Herr Freudenberg looked across the table at his companion with twinkling eyes. "This is a city of conspirators," he declared. "You make a man vain and happy and joyous at the same time. Let your dinner be served, then, Henri. Since I was in Paris last I have eaten many times, but I have not dined." The _maitre d'hotel_ departed, but for the next hour or so his eyes were seldom far away from the table where sat his most esteemed client. Once or twice, others of the diners sent for him. "Henri," one asked, and then another, "tell us, who is it that dines like a prince under the canopy of pink roses?" Henri smiled. "Monsieur," he replied, "it is Herr Carl Freudenberg of Leipzig." "Herr Carl Freudenberg of Leipzig--but who is he?" "He is a great manufacturer of toys, monsieur." "A German!" one muttered. "It is they who are spoiling Paris," another grumbled. "They have at least the money!" One woman alone shook her head. "It is not money only," she murmured, "which buys these things here from Henri."... The companion of Herr Carl Freudenberg was, without doubt, as charming as she appeared, for Herr Freudenberg certainly enjoyed his dinner as a man should. Nor were those lines of humor engraven about his mouth for nothing, to judge by the frequent peals of laughter from mademoiselle. Towards the close of dinner, Henri himself carried to them a superb violet ice, with real flowers around the dish and an electric light burning in the middle. "For two days, madame," he announced, "our chef has dreamed of this. It is a creation." "It is exquisite!" mademoiselle cried, with a gesture of delight. "Never in my life have I seen anything so wonderful." "Henri," Herr Freudenberg said in an aside, "you will present my compliments to the chef. You will shake him by the hand from me. You will double the little affair which passes between us. Tell him that it comes from one who appreciates the work of a great artist, even though his French thickens a little in his throat." Henri bowed low. "If monsieur's body is German," he declared, "his soul at least belongs to the land of romance." They were alone again and the girl leaned across the table. "Monsieur," she murmured, "it is cruel of you to come so seldom. You see what you do? You spoil the keepers of our restaurants, you steal away the hearts of your poor little companions, and then--one night or two, perhaps, and it is over. Monsieur Freudenberg has gone. The earth swallows him." "Back to my toys, mademoiselle," he whispered. "One has one's work." She looked at him long and tenderly. "Monsieur," she said, "it is two months, a week and three days since you were in Paris. Since then I have sung and danced, night by night, but my heart has never been gay. Come oftener, monsieur, or may one not sometimes cross the frontier and learn a little of your barbarous country?" For the first time the faintest shadow of gravity crossed his face. "Mademoiselle," he replied, "alas! The world is full of hard places. Behold me! When I am here, I am your devoted and admiring slave, but believe me that when I leave Paris and set my face eastwards, I do not exist. Dear Marguerite, it hurts me to repeat this--I do not exist." She looked down into her plate. "I understand," she murmured. "You said it to me once before. Have I not always been discreet? Have I ever with the slightest word disobeyed you?" "Nor will you ever, dear Marguerite," he declared confidently, "for if you did it would be the end. In the city where I make my toys, life as we live it here is not known. It is not recognized. And there is one's work in the world." She looked up from her plate. Her expression had changed. "It was foolish of me," she whispered. "To-night is one of those nights in Heaven for which I spend all my days longing. I think no more of the future. You are here. Tell me, from here--where?" "To the Opera. I have engaged the box that you prefer. We arrive for the last act of 'Samson et Dalila' and for the ballet." "And afterwards?" "To the Abbaye. After that, there is the Rat Mort--Albert must not be disappointed--and a new place, they tell me. One must see all these new places." "And we leave here soon?" "You are impatient!" "Only to be alone with you," she answered. "Even those few moments in the automobile are precious." He smiled at her across the table. She was very pretty with her fair hair and dark eyes, very Parisian, and yet with a shade of graceful seriousness about her eyes and mouth. "Dear Marguerite," he said, "I wait only for one of my agents who comes to speak to me on a matter of business. He is due almost at this moment. After he has been here, then we go. Cannot you believe," he whispered, dropping his voice a little and leaning slightly across the table, "that I, too, will love to feel your dear fingers in mine, your lips, perhaps, for a moment, as we pass to the Opera?" "It is a joy one must snatch," she murmured. "There is no joy in life," he replied, "which is not the sweeter for being snatched, and snatched quickly." "And you a German!" she sighed. Henri appeared once more, and after him Estermen. Herr Freudenberg, with a word of excuse to his companion, turned to greet the newcomer. "Well?" Estermen stood quite close to the table. He was distinctly ill at ease. "Herr Freudenberg," he said, "I have done my best. It was impossible for me to obtain an introduction to this customer." "Impossible?" Herr Freudenberg repeated, his face suddenly becoming stony. "Let me explain," Estermen continued hastily. "This customer arrived in Paris last night or early this morning. He was called upon at once by a lady who lives in the Avenue de St. Paul. She has told him a little story about me--I am sure of it. He has refused to make my acquaintance." "And you were content?" Estermen spread out his pudgy hands. "What can one do?" he muttered. "The man is quick-tempered. He dined tonight in the country at the Maison Leon d'Or with madame. It was there that I sought an introduction with him. It was impossible for me to force myself." "You know where to find him, I suppose?" "I know the hotel at which he is staying." "Make it your business to find him," Herr Freudenberg ordered. "Bring him with you, if before one o'clock to the Abbaye Theleme; if afterwards, to the Rat Mort." Estermen looked stolidly puzzled. "Am I to mention the subject of the toys of Herr Freudenberg's manufacture?" Herr Freudenberg tore a corner from the programme which lay on the table between them, and wrote a single word upon it. "Study that at your leisure, my friend," he said. "Pay attention to the task I impose upon you. Nothing is more important in my visit to Paris than that I should make the acquaintance of this person. Much depends upon it. I rely upon you, Estermen." Estermen thrust the morsel of paper into his waist-coat pocket. Then he leaned a little closer to this man who seemed to be his master. "Herr Freudenberg," he began, "I spoke of a lady in the Avenue de St. Paul, the companion to-night of the person whose acquaintance you are anxious to make." "What of her?" Herr Freudenberg asked calmly. "There are many ladies, without a doubt, who live in the Avenue de St. Paul." "The name of this one," Estermen continued slowly, "is Madame Christophor." Herr Freudenberg sat quite still in his place. His eyes seemed fixed upon a cluster of the roses which hung down from the other side of the sweet-smelling barrier by which they were surrounded. Yet something had gone out of his face, something fresh had arrived. The half contemptuous curl of the lips was finished. His mouth now was straight and hard, his eyes set, the deep lines upon his forehead and around his mouth were suddenly insistent. He sat so motionless that his face for a moment seemed as though it were fashioned in wax. Then his lips moved, he spoke in a whisper which was almost inaudible. "Henriette!" From across the table his companion watched him. At first she was puzzled. When she heard the woman's name which came so softly from his lips, she turned pale. Herr Freudenberg recovered from his fit of abstraction almost as quickly as he had lapsed into it. "I thank you, Estermen," he declared. "It is a coincidence, this. I am obliged for your forethought in mentioning it. Until later, then." The man made a somewhat clumsy bow, glanced admiringly at Herr Freudenberg's companion, and departed. Herr Freudenberg was shaking his head slowly. "I fear," he said softly to himself, "sometimes I fear that I am not so well served as might be in Paris. However, we shall see. For the moment let us banish these dull cares. If you are ready, Marguerite, I think I might suggest that the nearer way to the Opera is by the Champs Elysees." She rose to her feet and gave him her hand for a moment as she passed. "If one could only find as easily the way to your heart, dear maker of toys!" she murmured. _ |
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