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Updated: May 29, 2025
"Paws down or I'll scratch," was the sharp reply. The next moment he was shaking hands with Daisy Kissmi, an English girl who had become quite a feature of Raxim's. Further on he noticed a pale, bald, and already pot-bellied young man, who was staring with lack-lustre eyes at his whiskey and soda. This premature ruin was listening distraitly to a waiter who murmured mysteriously into his ear.
He recalled his arrival at Susy d'Orsel's apartment in company with the young companion he had picked up at Raxim's and the subsequent supper, and then he broke into a cold sweat as his mind flashed to the picture of Fandor's return with the inanimate body of his mistress in his arms dead. Yes, she was undoubtedly dead! And afterwards, what had happened?
Frederick-Christian glanced at his companion and then burst out laughing: "What is your name, anyway?" Fandor did not need to ask that question of the King. The moment he had set eyes on him in Raxim's he recognized in the sturdy tippler his Majesty Frederick-Christian II, King of Hesse-Weimar, on one of his periodic sprees.
On the Place de la Concorde, deserted at this late hour, two men, arm in arm, were taking their devious way. They were Fandor and the stranger he had met at Raxim's. The journalist, with the aid of an extra bottle, had persuaded his new friend to finish the night among the cafés of Montmartre.
Fandor remarked that the fair Isabelle seemed to be putting on weight, especially round the shoulders and hips, but she still retained a great deal of dash and an ardent look in her eyes, very valuable assets in her profession. "I have my table here, at Raxim's, you must come and join us," and she added with a sly smile, "Oh quite platonically I know you're unapproachable."
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