And then Ibrihim arriving, and ignoring Cowperwood as he would a sheepherder of his own land, proceeded to pay his compliments to Aileen.
Cowperwood was at first a little astonished, then amused.
The gleaming eyes of the Arab intrigued him.
“Interesting,” he said to himself.
“This fellow Tollifer is actually creating something here.
And this robed Bedouin covets my wife.
This should be a fine evening!”
Next entered Marigold Brainerd.
Her personality pleased him, and the appreciation appeared to be mutual.
But this rapprochement was soon interrupted by the arrival of the serene and exotic Rezstadt, swathed in a cream white shawl, the long silken fringe trailing over one arm and about her feet.
Cowperwood looked with approval on her olive-tinted face, framed so attractively by sleek black hair and a pair of heavy jet earrings which hung almost to her shoulders.
Observing him, and impressed, as were most women, Madame Rezstadt readily comprehended Aileen’s plight.
This was not a man for any one woman.
One must sip only and be content with that.
Aileen should be brought to comprehend that truth.
But Tollifer was impatiently urging that it was time to leave, and obeying his insistence they departed for Orsignat’s.
A private dining room that was half-balcony commanded, through open French windows, a full view of Notre Dame and the green square before it.
But all, as they entered, commented on the seeming lack of preparation for their dinner party, for there was only a plain wooden table completely bare.
Tollifer, entering last, exclaimed: “Why, what the devil does this mean?
I don’t understand.
There’s something wrong here.
They’re surely expecting us.
Wait, I’ll go and see,” and turning swiftly, he disappeared.
“I really can’t understand this,” said Aileen.
“I thought we had everything arranged.”
And she frowned and pouted and looked her irritated best.
“We’ve probably been shown to the wrong room,” said Cowperwood.
“They do not expect, what?” the sheik was saying to Marigold, when the door of an adjoining serving room suddenly opened, and in dashed Harlequin, enormously concerned.
This was Pantaloon himself, tall and gawky, his garb the usual star-and-moon sewn slip, cornucopia atop his head, his ears yellowed with grease paint, his eyesockets green, his cheeks cerise, ruffs and bangles about his wrists and neck, tufts of hair protruding from under his horn hat, immense white gloves on his hands, long, flail-like shoes on his feet.
Looking about with a kind of lunatic anguish and despair, he exclaimed:
“Ah, Mon Dieu!
Sacre-bleu!
Ah, ladies and gentlemen!
This is . . . indeed, this is . . . ah, no linen!
No silver!
No chairs!
Pardon!
Pardon!
Something must be done about this!
Pardon, mesdames and messieurs, something must have gone wrong.
Something must be done!
Ah!” and clapping his long hands and gazing toward the door, as though troops of servants must immediately respond to his bidding, he waited, without response.
Then once more clapping, he waited, one ear cocked toward the door.
After which, no sound ensuing, he turned to his audience, who, now comprehending, retreated to the walls to give Harlequin his stage.
Finger to his lips, he tiptoed to the door and listened.
Still no sound.
After stooping down and peering through the keyhole, his head cocked now this way, now that, he looked back at them, and, with an amazing grimace, again put his finger to his lips and glued one eye to the keyhole.
Finally he jumped back, falling flat as he did so, then jumped up and backed away, while the door flew open for a half-dozen waiters bearing linen, dishes, silver, glasses, trays—an orderly and businesslike procession—who proceeded to spread the table, ignoring him completely while he leaped and clattered about, exclaiming:
“So! So!
You come, do you?