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Mademoiselle, the companion of Monsieur Jesen, had had enough of this. It was her weekly holiday. She yawned and tapped her friend upon the arm. "My dear Paul," she protested, "while you and Herr Freudenberg talk as two men who have immense affairs, Marguerite and I we weary ourselves. If I am to be alone like this, very good. I speak to my friends. There is Monsieur de Chaussin there.
He is the proprietor of an important journal, through whose columns he shall help to guide the policy of your nation." Monsieur Jesen sat down. His fingers were clutching one another. Mademoiselle stared at Herr Freudenberg. Her color was coming and going. "Monsieur, I do not understand!" she cried. "Are you a prince in disguise? Why do you do this?"
He was talking with a dirty-looking man in a red tie and pince-nez." "I remember it quite well," Julien admitted. "Well, he was the leader writer in Le Jour, Jesen a brilliant man, an absolutely wonderful writer, but shiftless. Do you know what Falkenberg has done?
Let us, at any rate, be gay. And for the rest, Monsieur Jesen, time has no count for us who live our lives. When we leave here, you and I will talk more." It was daylight before they left. The whole party got into Herr Freudenberg's motor. "I drive you first to your rooms, Monsieur Jesen," he said. "I take then the liberty of entering with you.
To the wine we drink, to the lips we love, to this hour of life!" For the moment there was no more serious conversation. Herr Freudenberg had started a vein of frivolity to which every one there was quick to respond. Only every now and then he himself, the giver of the feast, had suddenly the look of a different man as he sat and whispered in the ear of Monsieur Jesen.
"Monsieur Jesen," he said, "and mademoiselle I speak to you both, for I recognize that between you there is indeed a union of sympathy and souls. Mademoiselle, then, I address myself to you. On certain terms I have offered to purchase for Monsieur Paul here a two-thirds share of the newspaper upon which he works, that two-thirds share which he and I both know is in the market at this moment.
The little conversation which we have begun is best concluded within the shelter of four walls." Monsieur Jesen was excited yet nervous. "It is too late," he muttered, "to talk business." Herr Freudenberg smiled. "Ah!" he cried, "you jest, my friend. Look out of that window. You see the sunshine in the streets, you breathe the fresh, clear air? Too late, indeed!
"What I can do I will. You know that, dear one. But he is a strange-looking man, this companion of hers. You know who he is? His name is Jesen. If I were Susanne, I would see to it that he was more comme-il-faut." Herr Freudenberg laughed. "Never mind his appearance," he said. "He can drive the truth into the hearts of this people as swiftly and as surely as any man who ever took up a pen.
The eyes of Monsieur Jesen were a little more bloodshot now. He had spilt wine down the front of his waistcoat, cigar ash upon his coat-sleeve. He was by no means an inviting person to look at. Yet about his forehead and mouth there was an expression of power. Herr Freudenberg, with obvious regret, abandoned his conversation for a moment. "You are taking your friend away?" he remarked suavely.
"We owe our apologies to mademoiselle, your charming friend, and mademoiselle, my adored companion," he added, turning to Marguerite. "Come, let us drink more wine. Let us talk together. What is your pleasure, mademoiselle, the friend of my good friend, Monsieur Jesen? Will you have them dance to us? Is there music to which you would listen? Or shall we pray Marguerite here that she sings?
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