Was
doing a Spanish dance on a cleared space in the middle of the floor.
We knew her instantly for a Spanish dancer, because she had a fan
in one hand and a pair of castanets in the other. Another girl,
dressed as a pierrot, was waiting to do her turn when the Spanish
dancer finished. Weariness showed through the lacquer of thick
cosmetic on her peaked little face. An orchestra of three pieces
sawed wood steadily; and at intervals, to prove that these were
gay and blithesome revels, somebody connected with the establishment
threw small, party-colored balls of celluloid about. But what
particularly caught our attention was the presence in a far corner
of two little darkies in miniature dress suits, both very wally
of eye, very brown of skin, and very shaved as to head, huddled
together there as though for the poor comfort of physical contact.
As soon as they saw us they left their place and sidled up, tickled
beyond measure to behold American faces and hear American voices.
They belonged, it seemed, to a troupe of jubilee singers who had
been imported from the States for the delectation of French
audiences. At night, after their work at a vaudeville theater was
done, the members of their company were paired off and sent about
to the cafes to earn their keep by singing ragtime songs and dancing
buck dances. These two were desperately, pathetically homesick.
One of them blinked back the tears when he told us, with the
plaintive African quaver in his voice, how long they had been away
from their own country and how happy they would be to get back to
it again.
"We suttin'ly is glad to heah somebody talkin' de reg'lar New
'Nited States talk, same as we does," he said. "We gits mighty
tired of all dis yere French jabberin'!"
"Yas, suh," put in his partner; "dey meks a mighty fuss over cullud
folks over yere; but 'tain't noways lak home. I comes from
Bummin'ham, Alabama, myse'f. Does you gen'lemen know anybody in
Bummin'ham?"
They were the first really wholesome creatures who had crossed our
paths that night. They crowded up close to us and there they
stayed until we left, as grateful as a pair of friendly puppies
for a word or a look. Presently, though, something happened that
made us forget these small dark compatriots of ours. We had had
sandwiches all round and a bottle of wine. When the waiter brought
the check it fell haply into the hands of the one person in our
party who knew French and - what was an even more valuable
accomplishment under the present circumstances - knew the intricate
French system of computing a bill. He ran a pencil down the figures.
Then he consulted the price list on the menu and examined the label
on the neck of the wine bottle, and then he gave a long whistle.
"What's the trouble?" asked one of us.
"Oh, not much!" he said. "We had a bottle of wine priced at
eighteen francs and they have merely charged us twenty-four francs
for it - six francs overcharge on that one item alone. The total
for the sandwiches should have been six francs, and it is put down
at ten francs. And here, away down at the bottom, I find a
mysterious entry of four francs, which seems to have no bearing
on the case at all - unless it be that they just simply need the
money. I expected to be skinned somewhat, but I object to being
peeled. I'm afraid, at the risk of appearing mercenary, that we'll
have to ask our friend for a recount."
He beckoned the waiter to him and fired a volley of rapid French
in the waiter's face. The waiter batted his eyes and shrugged his
shoulders; then reversing the operation he shrugged his eyelids
and batted his shoulderblades, meantime endeavoring volubly to
explain. Our friend shoved the check into his hands and waved him
away. He was back again in a minute with the account corrected.
That is, it was corrected to the extent that the wine item had
been reduced to twenty-one francs and the sandwiches to eight
francs.
By now our paymaster was as hot as a hornet. His gorge rose - his
freeborn, independent American gorge. It rose clear to the ceiling
and threw off sparks and red clinkers. He sent for the manager.
The manager came, all bows and graciousness and rumply shirtfront;
and when he heard what was to be said he became all apologies and
indignation. He regretted more than words could tell that the
American gentlemen who deigned to patronize his restaurant had
been put to annoyance. The garcon - here he turned and burned up
that individual with a fiery sideglance - was a debased idiot and
the misbegotten son of a yet greater and still more debased idiot.
The cashier was a green hand and an imbecile besides. It was
incredible, impossible, that the overcharging had been done
deliberately; that was inconceivable. But the honor of his
establishment was at stake. They should both, garcon and cashier,
be discharged on the spot. First, however, he would rectify all
mistakes. Would monsieur intrust the miserable addition to him
for a moment, for one short moment? Monsieur would and did.
This time the amount was made right and our friend handed over in
payment a fifty-franc note. With his own hands the manager brought
back the change. Counting it over, the payee found it five francs
short. Attention being directed to this error the manager became
more apologetic and more explanatory than ever, and supplied the
deficiency with a shiny new five-franc piece from his own pocket.
And then, when we had gone away from there and had traveled a
homeward mile or two, our friend found that the new shiny five-franc
piece was counterfeit - as false a thing as that manager's false
smile.
