And yet, really, up to this time I had not once
looked into his face, quite a necessary thing in conducting a
conversation of any duration. But then one rarely does in talking to a
waiter when he is serving you. My remarks had generally been addressed
to the dish in front of me, or to the door opposite, through which I
looked, and his rejoinders to the back of my shirt-collar. If he had sat
opposite, or had moved into the perspective, I might once in a while
have caught a glimpse, over my glass or spoon, of his smileless,
mask-like face, a thing impossible, of course, with him constantly
behind my chair.
When, however, in the course of his monotone, he mentioned the name of
Mademoiselle Ernestine Beraud and that of the distinguished kinsman of
His Serene Highness, the Grand Pan-Jam of the Orient, I turned my head
in his direction.
"You know the Mademoiselle, then?"
My waiter shrugged his shoulders, his face still impenetrable.
"Monsieur, I know everybody in Paris. Why not? Twenty-three years a
waiter.
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