Individually the habitués of the Bar du Grillon were interesting.
There was an aged Countess who came regularly, an amiable old lady, shriveled like a faded rose, the memoirs of whose sixty years would have filled a volume.
There was, too, a robust and jolly editor of a leading journal, a most polished gentleman of France, with a well-trimmed beard framing a countenance beaming with good humor.
Thirdly, there was the Count de X——, who spent most of his time before and after dinner in the only rocking-chair in the place, with Lucille’s two sleek-coated dachshunds curled contentedly in his lap.
Sometimes, on sunny days, the Count went to the races and with absent mind watched the horses win or lose for him. Upon days like these he would return to the bar late to find the rocking-chair occupied, and this is why he did not go to the track oftener. But whether he lost or won, whichever way the wheel of fortune spun for him, his outward manner preserved its even tenor. He was ever polished and agreeable. To him life had no new sensations, and he took it philosophically and with good grace. Perhaps the sole interest which he cherished was his deep affection for Lucille, but since many others among her old friends harbored the same feeling, to which she responded with the most exasperating of platonic friendships, the Count accepted the situation logically and retired to the rocking-chair to talk to the dachshunds.
The young Spaniard who sat at Lucille’s left at dinner accepted the situation less wisely. Often he burst forth beneath his breath with _Caramba!_ and other safety-valves of speech. Periodically he became desperate, and, since he could not lay his castles in Spain at her feet, he brooded over the thought of suicide, and would absent himself from the company for days, drinking heavily. Then he would return to the Grillon with the excuse that he had been at death’s door in his apartment. Tho he looked it, Lucille knew better and lectured him for his recklessness and especially for his intemperate habits, which she abhorred.
Another habitué was Mademoiselle Marcelle Dauval, who fell in love with an aeronaut and spent most of her time in balloons. When Marcelle was late for dinner the company wore an anxious air, took out their watches, poked their heads out of the door and surveyed the heavens through the slit of the narrow street. Often, as the dinner hour approached, the sky was black and full of scudding clouds, and the dinner would begin without her in silence born of anxiety. Then what joy when Marcelle arrived, her cheeks glowing from a rarer atmosphere than any of these sordid worldlings knew! “_Pâté de foie gras_, cold pheasant and _champagne brut_ at a height of two thousand meters! Eh, Hop!” and Marcelle gave a little scream at the memory of it. Often she navigated the big balloon herself, throwing out the sand and sprinkling the “Germans,” as she used to say, as they glided on long trips over a patch of the Fatherland. Or she would curl herself up in the creaky basket while her companion Jacques busied himself with his aerial observations.