Around the long table of the host were seated, at respectable intervals,
a dozen or more gentlemen, who gazed stolidly at each other from time to
time, while the host himself smiled broadly upon them all from that end
of the room where the lift and the smell of cooking exercise their
calling--the one to spoil the appetite, the other to pander to it when
spoilt.
Of these dozen gentlemen we have only to deal with one--a man of broad,
high forehead, of colorless eyes, of a mask-like face, who consumed what
was put before him with as little noise as possible. Known in Paris as
"Ce bon Vassili," this traveller. But in Paris one does not always use
the word bon in its English sense of "good."
M. Vassili was evidently desirous of attracting as little attention as
circumstances would allow. He was obviously doing his best to look like
one who travelled in the interest of braid or buttons. Moreover, when
Claude de Chauxville entered the table d'hote room, he concealed
whatever surprise he may have felt behind a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Through the same blue haze he met the Frenchman's eye, a moment later,
without the faintest twinkle of recognition.
These two worthies went through the weird courses provided by a cook
professing a knowledge of French _cuisine_ without taking any
compromising notice of each other.
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