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Updated: May 9, 2025
The man at the piano struck up the insidious "La Mattchiche," suggestive of the Bal Tabarin and other Fourteenth of July devotions. "Don't play that, Barkley," complained the big man, as every one began beating time to the fascinating air. "I'm trying to forget Paris." "Can you ever forget that night in Maxim's " began Mrs. Scudaway. "I recall the next day more vividly," he interrupted.
He served his time in the army in Senegal, and when he was mustered out moved to the French Congo and began to trade, in a small way, in ivory. Now he's the biggest merchant, physically and every other way, from Stanley Pool to Lake Chad. He has a house at Brazzaville built of mahogany, and a grand piano, and his own ice-plant. His wife was a supper-girl at Maxim's.
Whatever was the work he undertook with that brain in science, he would carry it out consummately. He is a born thinker. It is like this, don't you know." She tried to arrange her thoughts. "The particular branch of science to which Mr. Hiram Maxim's mind happens to have been directed was the making of machine-guns and he slays his thousands.
All you hear is, 'When I was in London. "I remember the time I met Ted Marks in Maxim's. Maxim's is in Paris, you know, my dear. It gives me a sharp, stinging pain. Those burgs ain't such a much.
A wild desire seized him to make a night of it, Maxim's, the cabarets; riot and wine. Who cared? But the desire burnt itself out between two puffs of his cigar. Ten years ago, perhaps, this particular brand of amusement might have urged him successfully. But not now; he was done with tomfool nights.
When you left Padden's place you went to Maxim's and listened to the fat quartette, then to the place where the waiter held out a dollar. After the trouble at that point, you tried to get into Tony's rathskeller and couldn't, so you started for the East Side. Ringold was very drunk. Good! Everything is clear so far.
Still, in Sir H. Maxim's opinion, lately expressed, "those who seek to navigate the air by machines lighter than the air have come, practically, to the end of their tether," while, on the other hand, "those who seek to navigate the air with machines heavier than the air have not even made a start as yet, and the possibilities before them are very great indeed."
She was a widow of sixty-five and she had been traversing Europe from end to end for several years in quest of a coronet. Many millions in gold had she, but even the most impecunious of noblemen had given them a wide berth, reluctantly, perhaps. Reversing the order of things, she was not seeing Europe; she was letting Europe see her. No one in Maxim's so gay and kittenish and coy as she!
It might save time if you would give me their names." "Now it is you who ask me to risk losing an enjoyable evening. But so be it. Le Comte de Lorgnes?" Mademoiselle Reneaux looked blank. "Madame la Comtesse de Lorgnes?" The young woman shook her head. "Both of a class sure to be conspicuous in such places as Maxim's," Lanyard explained. "The names, then, are probably fictitious."
"This isn't much like the last time and place where we danced," he said, smiling down at her and then glancing at the big, bare room with its kerosene lamps and bough-trimmed walls. "Do you remember?" She laughed and nodded. "Maxim's, wasn't it? But I like this best. There's something in the air here that keeps you feeling so alive all the time, and so much like having fun.
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