 Story 8. A Dinner at the Louvre The real name of this renowned West End restaurant is not the Louvre. I have christened it so, because the title seems to me to suit it very nicely and because a certain disguise is essential. The proprietors of Louvre, it belongs to an esteemed firm of caterers, would decidedly object to the coupling of the name of their principal establishment, with an affair so curious and disconcerting as that which I am about to relate. And their objection would be perfectly justifiable. Nevertheless, the following story is a true one, and the details of it are familiar to at least half a dozen persons whose business it is, for one reason or another, to keep an eye upon that world of crime and pleasure, which is bounded on the east by both street and on the left by Hyde Park Corner. It was on an evening in the last week in May that I asked Rosie Martin to dine with me at the Louvre. I selected the Louvre while knowing that from some mysterious cause all popular actresses prefer the Louvre to other restaurants, although the quality of the food there is not always impeccable. I am not in the habit of inviting the favourites of the stage to dinner, especially favourites who enjoy a salary of seventy-five pounds a week, as Rosie Martin did and does. But in the present case I had a particular object in view. Rosie Martin was taking the chief feminine role in my new light comedy, then in active rehearsal at the Alcazar Theatre in Shasbury Avenue. We had almost quarreled over her interpretation of the big scene in the second act, which differed materially from my own idea of how the scene ought to go. Diplomacy was necessary. I prided myself on my powers as a diplomatist. I knew that if I could chat with Miss Rosie in the privacy of a table for two at a public restaurant, there is no privacy more discreet, I could convert her to my opinions on that second act. Have you engaged a table upstairs? was her first inquiry, as with the assistance of a stout and gorgeous official, I helped her to alight from her broam at the Portico of the House. She looked lovely and half the street was envying me, but unfortunately Rosie's looks have nothing to do with the tale. Let me therefore dismiss them as a dangerous topic. No, I said, but I expect there'll be plenty of room. Plenty of room, she exclaimed, with a charming scorn and a glance which said, This young man really has a great deal to learn about the art of entertaining ladies at the Louvre. I admit that I add. Oh yes, I insisted with bravado plenty. Ask the booking clerk she commanded, and with all her inimitable grace, she sank like a fatigued silt into one of the easy chairs that furnished the entrance hall and drew her cloak round her shoulders. The booking clerk in a faultless evening dress with a formidable silver chain encircling his neck stood at the foot of the grand staircase which was very grand. The booking clerk politely but coldly informed me that he had not a table upstairs. He said that every table had been booked since a quarter to seven. Well, I suppose we must be content with downstairs, but I much prefer the balcony, said Rosie when I told her, and Rosie was obviously cross. My dinner was beginning ominously. I returned to the booking clerk, who was then good enough to tell me that he had no table downstairs either. I felt rather an ass, but I never permit my ass and entity to go too far. I assumed an attitude of a marshal decision and ordered one of the pages to get me a handsome. We will dine at the Savoy, I said, very loud. Every official in the neighborhood heard me. Rosie smiled, whether at the prospect of the Savoy, or at my superb indignation. I know not. Just as we were emerging into the street, the booking clerk, his silver chain clinking, touched me on the shoulder. I can let you have a table upstairs now, sir, said he. A party that engaged one has not arrived. I thought they wouldn't let us run away to the Savoy, I remarked to Rosie Sotovoce, and was satisfaction. I had triumphed, and the pretty creature was a witness of my triumph. What name, sir? asked the clerk. John Delph, I replied, his gesture showed that he recognized that name, and this pleased me too. Had not my first farcical comedy run a hundred and sixty-nights at the Alcázar? It was only proper that my reputation should have reached even the clerks and restaurants. Your official recognized Miss Rosie's much photographed face, and we passed up the staircase with considerable ecla. You managed that rather well, said Miss Rosie, dimpling was satisfaction, as we sat down in the balcony of the Grand Hall of the Louvre. The dinner was not beginning so ominously after all. I narrate to these preliminary incidents to show how large a part is played by pure chance in the gravest events of our lives. I ordered the ten-and-six-penny dinner. Who could offer to the unique Rose-Martin a five-chilling or a seven-and-six-penny rapaz, when one at half a guinea was to be obtained? Not I. The meal started with anchovies, which Rosie said she adored. She also adored Nuget, Grand Amont, and other pagan gods. As Rosie put the first bit of anchovy into her adorable mouth, the yellow Hungarian band at the other end of the crowded hall struck up the Raghavsky march, and the whole place was filled with clamor. Why people insist on deafening music as an accompaniment to the business of eating, I cannot imagine. Personally, I like to eat in peace and quietude, but I fear I am an exception. Rosie's eyes sparkled with pleasure at the sound of the band, and I judged the moment opportune to ascertain her wishes on this object of wine. She stated them in her own imperious way, and I signaled to the waiter. Now, I had precisely noticed, or I fancy, I noticed, an extraordinary obsequiousness in this waiter, and obsequiousness surpassing the usual obsequiousness of waiters. I object to it, and my attitude of antagonism naturally served to intensify it. What's the matter with the fellow, I said to Rosie after I had ordered the wine? He's very good-looking, isn't he? was her only reply, as she gazed absently at the floor below us, crowded with elegant diners. And the waiter was indeed somewhat handsome, a light-haired man and, like all the waiters at the Louvre, a foreigner with a deficient knowledge of English. I expect he's lost on his bets today, Rosie added. They all bet, you know, and he's after a rousing tip to make up. Oh, is that it, I said, wondering at the pretty creature's knowledge of the world. And then I began to talk about my play in my best diplomatic manner, inwardly chafing at the interruption of that weird yellow Hungarian orchestra, with which bitter irony had hung over the railings of its stand, a placard bearing the words, by desire. The meal proceeded brilliantly. My diplomacy was a success. The champagne was a success. We arrived at the sorbet, that I see in sweet product, which in these days of enormous drapast, is placed half-way through the meal, in order to renew one's appetite for the second half. Your modern chef is the cruel tyrant of the stomach, and shows no mercy. The fair-haired waiter's hand distinctly trembled as he served the sorbet. I looked at mine for some moments, hesitating whether or not to venture upon it. I am a martyr to indigestion. It's delicious, said Rosie, more delicious than the second act of your partners. Then I must risk it, I replied, and plunge the spoon into the half-frozen greenish mass. As I did so I caught sight of our waiter, who was leaning against the service table at the corner of the balcony. His face was as white as a sheet. I thought he must be ill, and I felt sorry for him. However, I began to swallow the sorbet, and the sorbet was in truth rather joyous. Presently our waiter clutched at the sleeve of another waiter who was passing, and whispered a few words in his ear. The second waiter turned to look at me and replied, Then our waiter almost ran towards our table. Excuse me, sir, he murmured indistinctly, rolling the arm. Are you not, Count of Andernoff? I am not, I replied briefly. He hesitated. His hand wavered towards the sorbet, but he withdrew it and departed. Mon Dieu! I heard him exclaim weakly under his breath. Possibly he's been taking me for an aristocratic compatriot of his own, I said to Rosie, and that explains the obsequiousness. You were wrong about the bedding. I laughed, but I felt ill at ease, and to cover my self-consciousness I went on eating the sorbet very slowly. I must have consumed nearly a third of it when I became conscious of a movement behind me. A mysterious hand shot out and snatched away the sorbet. Sir, I protested looking round. A tall, youngish man in evening dress but wearing his hat stood on my lap. Sir, what in the name of your pardon answered the man in a low hurried voice? I could not guess his nationality. Let me beg you to leave here at once and come with me. I shall do no such thing, I replied. Waiter, call the manager. But our waiter had disappeared. It is a matter of life and death, said the man, to whom? To you. The man removed his hat and looked appealingly at Miss Rosie. Don't let's have a scene in here, said Rosie with her worldly wisdom, and impelled by the utter seriousness of the man we went out. I forgot the bill, and no one presented it. I solemnly asked you to take a little drive with me, said the man, when we had reached the foyer. I have a carriage at the door. Again, why? I demanded. He whispered, you are poisoned. I am saving your life. I rely on your discretion. My spine turned chilly and I glanced at Miss Rosie. I will come with you, she said. In five minutes we had driven to a large house in Golden Square. We were ushered into a lavishly furnished drawing-room, and we sat down. Rosie's lips were set. I admired her demeanor during those moments. The man, who said he was saving my life, poured some liquid from a file into a glass, and handed it to me. Emitics are useless. Drink this. In an hour you will feel the first symptoms of illness. They may be severe, though that is improbable, since you ate only a portion of the stuff. In any event they will not last. Tomorrow you will be perfectly well. Let me advise you to go to bed at once. My carriage is at your service and the service of this lady, he bowed. I drank the antidote. Thanks for all these surprises, I said coldly, but does it not occur to you that some explanation is due to me? He pondered a minute. I will explain, he replied. It is your right. I will explain in two words. You have heard of Count Bandanoff, attached to the Russian Embassy in London. You may have seen in the papers that the Count has been appointed by the Tsar to be the new Governor of Helsingfors, the Finnish capital. I nodded. You are aware, he continued swathly, of the widespread persecutions in Finland, the taking away of the Constitution, the Russianizing of all offices, the censorship of the press. This persecution has given rise to a secret society which I will call the Friends of Finnish Freedom. Its methods are drastic. Count Bandanoff was known to be violently antagonistic to Finnish freedom. He dines often at the Louvre. He had engaged a table for tonight. The waiter in charge of that table was like myself, a member of the society, but unfortunately, rather a raw hand. The Count, quite unexpectedly, did not arrive at the Louvre tonight. The waiter, however, took you for the Count. The sorbet, which I snatched out of your hand, was... Need I say more? Poisoned? Poisoned. The affair was carefully arranged, and only a pure accident could have upset it. That accident occurred. What was it? The Count's coupé was knocked over by an omnibus in Piccadilly two hours ago, and the Count was killed. There was a pause. Then he will never be Governor of Helsingfors, I said. Heaven helps the right, the man answered. You English love freedom. You cannot guess what we in Finland have suffered. Let me repeat that I rely on your discretion. We left Miss Rosie and I, and the kind-hearted girl delivered me safely into the hands of my housekeeper. I was ill, but I soon recovered. A few days later I met Miss Rosie at rehearsal. Did you notice, she said to me, with an odd air, our table was number 13 that night. End of Story 8 End of The Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett