"I'm in bed."
"Get dressed, and I'll pick you up in half an hour. Lanvin said you—"
"Elysée quatre vingt dix sept? Monsieur Jacques?" injected the telephone operator.
"—weren't there."
"No."
"Pardonnez moi. Elysée quatre vingt dix sept? Monsieur Jacques?"
The operator's nasal coloratura entangled exchange hopelessly. Alone was no way for a Broadway star to spend a night in Paris. Paris was full of men. Tomorrow she'd phone Nino in Madrid.
"All right," she said and hung up.
She took Beman's arm in the taxi. "I had an awful day, what I want is a nice big glass of real French champagne."
"What happened? You sound all in."
Her voice wavered. "I got lost."
It was easy to tell the French from Americans. The Americans were all drunk and cutting up like college kids, even old men. Wine at Piselli's never had this dry bloom. Distant sniffing glances of the French.
"The French do things with éclat," Lady Sickham said, trying to pretend she didn't come from Chicago. Figente was right, the French women talked a lot. It gave them sinewy necks and mouths. They aren't as pretty as American girls. New York was just as nice as Paris. Better.
The evening wound up someplace where the champagne was more like that in New York, and an exhibition was put on by men and men, and men and women, and women and women. Going nowhere fast.
Peepholers are excited by looking because they know nobody wants to love them. Poor things. Semy would enjoy this. Vida would be shocked. Very unpoetical! Better take Beman home before he has a stroke.
The telephone was ringing. Where was the receiver? Oh yes, this wasn't home, it was Paris France.
The same mixup of the operator calling someone else. How many people missed something important this way? Beman ought to let her sleep.
