Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1911-03-19
Continued from page g

"What address, Monsieur lie Baron?" he
asked as he deferentially held the door.
Saccarello yawned indifferently. ooh,
tell him the Champs Elysees, the Bots, any
thing he replied. ~ need breath of air"
AS they swung round into the boulevard
beyond observation, the chauffeur received
fresh command. Seventy nine Rue de
Grenelle," called the passenger crisply. "And
be quick about it,"
Baked of what promised to be a lavish
fare, the man con6ded to his steering wheel
that the ancient behind was both wretched
camel and pickle; but he obeyed orders
and shot through the Place de la Concorde
at speed that reused the ire, but eluded
the interference, of the police. Saccarello, as
was his habit, turned his head to glance at
the second fountain. 1t grimly amused him,
the friend of many Kings, to remember that
on that spot one of them had parted COM
pany with his anointed head. Crossing the
bridge, he yielded to another habit. The
waterfront spread its wonted spectacle; but
of the myriad lights he singled only the in
conspicuous group in the rear of the house
of Napoleonic memories which today shell
tiers the German Embassy. That too gave
him ironical amusement.
The left bank gained, and clear stretch
of boulevard before, they tore past the Dep
uties and the Ministry of War, struck at
sharp angle into the narrow Rue de Belle
chase, skirted still another ministry, and,
entering Grenelle at last, that street of
graceful memories and stored dwellings,
now given over to officialdom, came with
purr of slackening mechanism to halt before
a courtyard which the stroke of midnight,
just sounding, should have peopled with
ghosts in perukes and brocades. There was
a porter at the gate who looked like Major
Pendennis; but he was not English, and,
though he greeted the caller in French, he
was not a Frenchman. Nor, despite its
setting, despite its builders, despite its ghosts
of the old regime, was the house itself French.
Its soil, even, was alien territory. The arms
carved just beneath its pediment were the
arms of Russia.
As Saccarello limped up the red car
peted steps, he was met by a footman
who Invested him of his coat and ceremo-
niously threw open the door of an ante
chamber French workmen had wrought
its woodwork and wreathed its stucco gar
lands. French artists had painted the
chubby cupids and impossible landscapes of
its panels; yet somehow the room was no
longer French. Portraits of the Car and
Czarina, jeweled icon, painting showing
the Neva in wintertime, and a remarkable
Byzantine mosaic, served to stamp it with
the character of its owners.
But Saccarello's wait here was brief. A sec
ond door opened, and a man far younger
than the visitor advanced with quick step to
greet and lead him to the inner chamber.
Russia spoke here with still more emphasis.
The desk, the bookshelves, the chairs, were
massive and ornate. The scent of Russian
cigarette perv Ged every corner. On a tab
oret stood III, ted samovar, toward which
the master of the house made immediate
gesture.
"Tea. Baron?"
"No, thank YOU"
"a ,queur, then? A cigarette?"
:, ccarello drew from his pocket villain
crsl, rcd cigar, which could have origi-
mated nov here save below the Alps
"No ~hing bat this he said, and accept
ing Ii L yht, blew an evil smelling cloud
through his mustache. give met her, he
laconically announced.
The Russian smiled. "You lost no time"
he said.
81 am too old to lose time"
"And will she serve-La Belle Ameri-
caine?'
Saccarello answered with a question
@You were an attache in Washington for
time, believer"