The journalist rose with the intention of making his escape, when a voice directly behind him made him pause.
"Excuse me, but you seem to know all about these 'Singing Fountains.' Will you kindly explain to me what they are? I am a stranger in the city."
Fandor turned and saw a man of about thirty, fair-haired, with a heavy moustache, seated alone at a small table. The stranger was well built and of distinguished appearance. The journalist suppressed a start of amazement.
"Why, it's not surprising that you have not heard of them, they are quite unimportant. On the Place de la Concorde there are two bronze monuments representing Naiads emerging from the fountains. You probably have seen them yourself?"
The stranger nodded, and poured out another glass of champagne.
"Well," continued Fandor, "recently passers-by have fancied they heard sounds coming from these figures. In fact, they declare that the Naiads have been singing. A delightfully poetic and thoroughly Parisian idea, isn't it?"
"Very Parisian indeed."
"The papers have taken it up, and one you probably know by name, La Capitale, has decided to investigate this strange phenomenon."
"What was Conchita asking you just now?"
"Oh, nothing, merely to give her a card for the ceremony."
The conversation continued and turned to other subjects. The stranger ordered more wine and insisted on Fandor joining him. He seemed to be particularly interested in the subject of women and the night life of Paris.
"If only I could persuade him to come with me," thought Fandor. "I'd show him a stunt or two, and what a scoop it would make … if it could be printed! He certainly is drunk, very drunk, and that may help me."
On the Place de la Concorde, deserted at this late hour, two men, arm in arm, were taking their devious way. They were Fandor and the stranger he had met at Raxim's.
The journalist, with the aid of an extra bottle, had persuaded his new friend to finish the night among the cafés of Montmartre. The sudden change from the overheated restaurant to the cold outside increased the effects of the alcohol and Fandor realized that he himself was far from sober. As his companion seemed to be obsessed with the idea of seeing the Fountains, the journalist piloted him to the Place de la Concorde.
"There you are," he exclaimed, "but you see they're closed. No more singing to-night. Now come and have a drink."
"Good idea, some more champagne."
Fandor hailed a taxi, and ordered the chauffeur to drive to the Place Pigalle. As he was shutting the door, he observed an old beggar, who evidently was afraid to ask for alms. Fandor threw him a coin as the taxi started.
It was three in the morning, and the Place Pigalle was crowded with carriages, porters and a constant ebb and flow of all sorts of people.
The journalist and his companion emerged some time later from one of the best known restaurants, both drunk, especially the stranger, who could scarcely keep his feet.
"Look here, we must go … go … "
"Go to bed," interrupted Fandor.
"No. I know where we can go. … "
"But we've been everywhere."
"We'll go to my rooms … to her rooms … to Susy d'Orsel … she's my girl … d'ye know, she's been expecting me for supper since midnight."
"More supper?"
"Of course … there's plenty of room left."
With some difficulty the stranger managed to give the address, 247 Rue de Monceau.
"All right," said Fandor to himself, "we'll have some fun; after all, what do I risk?"
While the taxi shook them violently from side to side, Fandor grew comparatively sober. He examined his companion more closely and was surprised to see how well he carried himself in spite of his condition.
"Well," he summed up, "he certainly has a jag, but it's a royal jag!"
CHAPTER II
MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS
"Now you've forgotten the fish knives and forks! Do you expect my lover to eat with his fingers like that old Chinaman I had for three months last year!"
Susy d'Orsel spoke with a distinct accent of the Faubourg, which contrasted strangely with her delicate and distinguished appearance.
Justine, her maid, stood staring in reply.
"But, Madame, we have lobsters. … "
"What's that got to do with it, they're fish, ain't they?"
The young woman left the table and went into the adjoining room, a small drawing-room, elegantly furnished in Louis XV style.
"Justine," she called.
"Madame."
"Here's another mistake. You mustn't get red orchids. Throw these out. … I want either mauve or yellow ones. … You know those are the official colors of His Majesty."
"Queer taste his … His Majesty has for yellow."
"What's that to do with you. Get a move on, lay the table."
"I left the pâté de foie gras in the pantry with ice round it."
"All right."
The young woman returned to the dining-room and gave a final glance at the preparations.
"He's a pretty good sort, my august lover." Justine started in surprise.
"August! Is that a new one?"
Susy d'Orsel could hardly repress a smile.
"Mind your own business. What time is it?"
"A quarter to twelve, Madame." And as the girl started to leave the room she ventured:
"I hope M. August won't forget me, to-morrow morning."
"Why, you little idiot, his name isn't August, it's Frederick-Christian! You have about as much sense as an oyster!"
The maid looked so crestfallen at this that Susy added, good-naturedly:
"That's all right, Justine, A Happy New Year anyway, and don't worry. And now get out; His Majesty wants nobody about but me this evening."
Susy d'Orsel, in spite of her physical charms, had found life hard during the earlier years of her career. She had become a mediocre actress merely for the sake of having some profession, and had frequented the night restaurants in quest of a wealthy lover. It was only after a long delay that fortune had smiled upon her, and she had arrived at the enviable position of being the mistress of a King.
Frederick-Christian II, since the death of his father three years previously, reigned over the destinies of the Kingdom of Hesse-Weimar. Young and thoroughly Parisian in his tastes, he felt terribly bored in his middle-class capital and sought every opportunity of going, incognito, to have a little fun in Paris. During each visit he never failed to call upon Susy d'Orsel, and by degrees, coming under the sway of her charms, he made her a sort of official mistress, an honor which greatly redounded to her glory and popularity.
He had installed her in a dainty little apartment in the Rue de Monceau. It was on the third floor and charmingly furnished. In fact, he was in the habit of declaring that