admiring and the amused. They paid no heed. Even in Paris they had become accustomed to this.
Clio stopped now and pointed to the pot of bubbling jambalaya. “Some of that!” she said. “A plateful ofthat. Mm, what a heavenly smell!”
“No. It will ruin your breakfast at Begué’s.”
“Nothing will ruin my breakfast. I have the appetite of a dock laborer. You know that. Here, Cupide. Set down that basket and fetch me a plateful ofthat lovely stuff. What’s that it’s called, Kaka?”
“Jambalaya. Heavy stuff. You’ll be—”
“Quick, Cupide. Tell the man a heaping plateful for me—for Madame la Comtesse.”
Cupide, in the act of setting down his basket, straightened again with a jerk “For who!”
“You heard!” barked Kakaracou. “A platefi.il of jambalaya for Madame la Comtesse. Who else, stupide!”
The dwarf shook his bullet head as though to rid it of cobwebs, grinned impishly and trotted off. “Heh, you! A dish of that stuff for Madame la Comtesse.”
“Who?”
“Madame la Comtesse there. And be quick about it.”
The man looked up from stirring the pot, his eyes fell on the girl’s eager face, he became all smiles, his eyes, his teeth flashed, he spooned up a great bowlful and placed it on a tray and himself would have carried it to her but Cupide reached up and took it from him and brought it to her miraculously without spilling a drop, brimming though it was. Then, because he was just table-high with arms strong as steel rods, he stood before her holding up the tray with its savory dish and she stood and ate it thus, daintily and eagerly, with quite a little circle of admiring but anxious New Orleans faces, black, olive, cream, café au lait, white, awaiting her verdict.
“Oh,” Clio cried between hot heaping spoonfuls, “it’s delicious, it’s better than anything I’ve ever eaten in France.”
Cupide, the living table, could just be seen from the eyes up, staring over the rim of the tray. He now turned his head to right to left while his stocky little body remained immovable. “Madame la Comtesse,” he announced in his shrill boyish voice, “says that the dish is delicious, it is more delicious than anything she has eaten in France.” He then lowered the tray an inch or two to peer into the half-empty dish. “Relevé,” he said under his breath. “Hash! Pfui!”
Clio took a final spoonful, her strong white teeth crunching the spicy mess; she broke a crust of fresh French bread, neatly mopped up the sauce in the bowl and popped this last rich morsel into her mouth. The onlookers breathed a satisfied sigh, and at that moment Clio encountered the bold and enveloping stare of one onlooker whose admiration quite evidently was not for her gustatory feats but for her face and figure. It was more than that. The look in the eyes of this man who stood regarding her was amused, was tender, was possessive. He was leaning indolently against one of the pillars forming the arcade, his hands thrust into the front pockets of his tight fawn trousers, one booted foot crossed the other. Under the broad, rolling brim of his white felt hat his stare of open and flashing admiration was as personal as an embrace. Clio Dulaine was accustomed to stares, she even liked them. In France, especially at the races, the Parisians had followed the fantastic little group made up of the lovely Rita Dulaine, the full-blown Belle, the great-eyed girl, the attendant dwarf and Negress. They had stared and commented with the Gallic love of the bizarre. But this man’s gaze was an actual intrusion. He was speaking to her, wordlessly. In another moment she thought he actually would approach her, address her. She felt the blood tingling in her cheeks that normally were so pale. Abruptly she set down her plate and spoon, she shoved the tray a little away from her.
“Bravo Madame la Comtesse!” cried the jambalaya man behind his brazier of charcoal. “Eaten like a true Creole!” The onlookers laughed a
Clio stopped now and pointed to the pot of bubbling jambalaya. “Some of that!” she said. “A plateful ofthat. Mm, what a heavenly smell!”
“No. It will ruin your breakfast at Begué’s.”
“Nothing will ruin my breakfast. I have the appetite of a dock laborer. You know that. Here, Cupide. Set down that basket and fetch me a plateful ofthat lovely stuff. What’s that it’s called, Kaka?”
“Jambalaya. Heavy stuff. You’ll be—”
“Quick, Cupide. Tell the man a heaping plateful for me—for Madame la Comtesse.”
Cupide, in the act of setting down his basket, straightened again with a jerk “For who!”
“You heard!” barked Kakaracou. “A platefi.il of jambalaya for Madame la Comtesse. Who else, stupide!”
The dwarf shook his bullet head as though to rid it of cobwebs, grinned impishly and trotted off. “Heh, you! A dish of that stuff for Madame la Comtesse.”
“Who?”
“Madame la Comtesse there. And be quick about it.”
The man looked up from stirring the pot, his eyes fell on the girl’s eager face, he became all smiles, his eyes, his teeth flashed, he spooned up a great bowlful and placed it on a tray and himself would have carried it to her but Cupide reached up and took it from him and brought it to her miraculously without spilling a drop, brimming though it was. Then, because he was just table-high with arms strong as steel rods, he stood before her holding up the tray with its savory dish and she stood and ate it thus, daintily and eagerly, with quite a little circle of admiring but anxious New Orleans faces, black, olive, cream, café au lait, white, awaiting her verdict.
“Oh,” Clio cried between hot heaping spoonfuls, “it’s delicious, it’s better than anything I’ve ever eaten in France.”
Cupide, the living table, could just be seen from the eyes up, staring over the rim of the tray. He now turned his head to right to left while his stocky little body remained immovable. “Madame la Comtesse,” he announced in his shrill boyish voice, “says that the dish is delicious, it is more delicious than anything she has eaten in France.” He then lowered the tray an inch or two to peer into the half-empty dish. “Relevé,” he said under his breath. “Hash! Pfui!”
Clio took a final spoonful, her strong white teeth crunching the spicy mess; she broke a crust of fresh French bread, neatly mopped up the sauce in the bowl and popped this last rich morsel into her mouth. The onlookers breathed a satisfied sigh, and at that moment Clio encountered the bold and enveloping stare of one onlooker whose admiration quite evidently was not for her gustatory feats but for her face and figure. It was more than that. The look in the eyes of this man who stood regarding her was amused, was tender, was possessive. He was leaning indolently against one of the pillars forming the arcade, his hands thrust into the front pockets of his tight fawn trousers, one booted foot crossed the other. Under the broad, rolling brim of his white felt hat his stare of open and flashing admiration was as personal as an embrace. Clio Dulaine was accustomed to stares, she even liked them. In France, especially at the races, the Parisians had followed the fantastic little group made up of the lovely Rita Dulaine, the full-blown Belle, the great-eyed girl, the attendant dwarf and Negress. They had stared and commented with the Gallic love of the bizarre. But this man’s gaze was an actual intrusion. He was speaking to her, wordlessly. In another moment she thought he actually would approach her, address her. She felt the blood tingling in her cheeks that normally were so pale. Abruptly she set down her plate and spoon, she shoved the tray a little away from her.
“Bravo Madame la Comtesse!” cried the jambalaya man behind his brazier of charcoal. “Eaten like a true Creole!” The onlookers laughed a
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