Luigi's place, as all men know, is situated upon a small, crooked and
very dirty street, yet none the less, it is an abode of contentment
for those who know good living. When Helena and I entered the door I
felt as one again at home. Here were the sanded floors, the old
water-bottles, the large chandelier with its cut glasses in the middle
of the room, the small tables with their coarse clean linen. The same
old French waiters stood here and there about, each with impeccable
apron and very peccable shoes, as is the wont of all waiters. But the
waiters at Luigi's are more than waiters; they are friends, and they
never forget a face. Therefore, as always, I had no occasion for
surprise when Jean, my waiter these many years at Luigi's, stepped
forward as though it had been but last week and not three years ago
when he had seen me. He called me by name, greeted me again to his
city, and gently aided Helena with her wraps and gloves.
"And M'sieu can not long remain away from us, forever?" said he.
"It has been three years, Jean," said I, "more is the pity. But now,
I can remain three hours--will that serve? At the end of that time we
must away."
Jean was human, yet discreet. He knew that when last he saw me I was a
single man. Now he had doubts. He stood hovering about, a question on
his tongue, smitten of admiration much as had been my dog, Partial, at
his first sight of Helena. At last he made excuse to step close behind
my chair under pretense of finding my napkin.
"Enfin, M'sieu?" said he, smiling.
"Pas encore, Jean!" I replied.
I saw a slow flush on Helena's cheek, but she gave no other sign that
she had overheard. So I began forthwith making much ado about ordering
our supper, which as usual really was much a matter of Jean's taste.
"We have to-night in the ice-boxes, M'sieu," said that artist, "some
cock oysters which are dreams. Moreover, I have laid aside two
canvasbacks, the best I ever saw--it was in the hope that some really
good friend of mine would come in. Behold, I am happy--I must have
been expecting you. Believe me, we have never had better birds than
these. They are excellent."
"Perhaps the oysters, Jean," said I, "very small and dark. I presume
possibly a very small fillet of trout this evening, and the
sauce--you still can make it, Jean? Such entrées as you like, of
course. But, since Mademoiselle--" and here I smiled--"and I, also,
are very hungry this evening, we wish a woodcock after the canvasback,
if you do not mind. Perhaps it is not too much?"
"Mais non!" replied Jean. "You are of those who know well that to
eat too much is not to dine well. But I shall bring you two oysters,
marinière--a sauce my own wife invented. And yes, some small bird,
beccasine, broiled lightly--perhaps you will enjoy it after the
canvasback, although I assure you those are excellent indeed. We have
few sweets here, as M'sieu knows, but cheese, if you like, and of
course coffee; and always we have the red wine which I remember M'sieu
liked so much."