“After all,” Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, “what is there in a place like this to amuse?  We are not Americans or tourists.  The Montmartre is finished.  The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it.  The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men.  The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit.  But for the rest there is nothing.  The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,—­no more.  For the man of the world—­such as you and I, monsieur,—­these places do not exist.”

I glanced at my companion a little curiously.  There was something in his manner distinctly puzzling.  With his lips he was smiling approval at the little danseuse who was pirouetting near our table, but it seemed to me that his mind was busy with other thoughts.  Suddenly he turned his head toward mine.

“Monsieur must remember,” he said quietly, “that a place like this is as the froth on our champagne.  It is all show.  It exists and it passes away.  This very restaurant may be unknown in a year’s time,—­a beer palace for the Germans, a den of absinthe and fiery brandy for the cochers.  It is for the tourists, for the happy ladies of the world, that such a place exists.  For those who need other things—­other things exist.”

“Go on, Louis,” I said quietly.  “You have something in your mind.  What is it?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I could take monsieur somewhere where he would be more entertained.  There is nothing to do there, nothing to see, little music.  But it is a place,—­it has an atmosphere.  It is different.  I cannot explain.  Monsieur would understand if he were there.”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, let us pay our bill and go!” I exclaimed.  “We have both had enough of this, at any rate.”

Louis did not immediately reply.  I turned around—­we were sitting side by side—­wondering at his lack of response.  What I saw startled me.  The man’s whole expression had changed.  His mouth had come together with a new firmness.  A frown which I had never seen before had darkened his forehead.  His eyes had become little points of light.  I realized then, perhaps for the first time, their peculiar color,—­a sort of green tinged with gray.  He presented the appearance of a man of intelligence and acumen who is thinking deeply over some matter of vital importance.

“Well, what is it, Louis?” I asked.  “Are you repenting of your offer already?  Don’t you want to take me to this other place?”

“It is not that, monsieur,” Louis answered softly, “only I was wondering if I had been a little rash.”

“Rash?” I repeated.

Louis nodded his head slowly, but he paused for several moments before speaking.

“I was only wondering,” said he, “whether, after all, it would amuse you.  There is nothing to be seen, not so much as here.  Afterwards, perhaps, you might regret—­you might think that I had done wrong in not telling you certain things about the place which must remain secret.”