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The single approbation of Father De Berey was worth more than the praise of a world full of ordinary eating mortals, who smacked their lips and said things were good, but who knew no more than one of the Cent Suisses why things were good, or could appreciate the talents of an artiste of the cordon bleu. Maitre Guillot's Easter pie had been a splendid success.
In the adjoining box to Guillot's the figure of a solitary man was just visible, a man who had leaned over to applaud Louise, but who was now sitting back in the shadows. Peter recognised him at once, notwithstanding the obscurity. This was so much to the good, at any rate. He took up his hat. "For a quarter of an hour you will excuse me, Violet," he said. "Watch Guillot.
Peter held the glasses only for a moment to his eyes, and then glanced down at the stage. "My God!" he muttered. "The man's a genius! Violet, the small motor is coming for you." He was out of the box in a single step. Violet looked after him, looked down upon the stage and across at Guillot's box. It was hard to understand.
There is nothing they love so much," she added, with a toss of the head, "as finding an excuse to have my picture in the paper." He followed her down the dim hall and up the broad, flat stairs, keeping always some distance behind. On the first landing she drew a key from her pocket and opened a door. It was the door of Monsieur Guillot's sitting-room.
They have just ordered their coffee ten minutes ago, and the car is waiting outside to take Mademoiselle to the Empire. Guillot's box is engaged there, as usual. If he proposes to occupy it, he is leaving himself a very narrow margin of time to carry out any enterprise worth speaking of." Violet was thoughtful for several moments.
The reports came to Peter every hour, although there was, indeed, nothing worth chronicling. Monsieur Guillot's visit to London would seem, indeed, to be a visit of gallantry. He spent most of his time with Mademoiselle Louise, the famous dancer. He was prominent at the Empire to watch her nightly performance; they were a noticeable couple supping together at the Milan afterwards.
Guillot moved through it all like a man wholly unconscious of espionage, showing nothing of the murderous anger which burned in his blood. The reports came to Peter every hour, although there was, indeed, nothing worth chronicling. Monsieur Guillot's visit to London would seem, indeed, to be a visit of gallantry. He spent most of his time with Mademoiselle Louise, the famous dancer.
"Oh, nothing, sir," replied Jules, with humility, "only I thought " Poor Jules would have consented to eat his thought rather than fall out with the father of his Susette. "You thought!" Maitre Guillot's face was a study for Hogarth, who alone could have painted the alto tone of voice as it proceeded from his round O of a mouth.
There is an expression of content on Guillot's countenance, it seems more open than usual, and there is a complacent smile on his lips. He is whispering low to his friend in the intervals of eating, an employment pursued with the hearty gusto of a hungry man.
"My God!" he muttered. "The man's a genius! Violet, the small motor is coming for you." He was out of the box in a single step. Violet looked after him, looked down upon the stage and across at Guillot's box. It was hard to understand.
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