Edward Phillips Oppenheim

The Lost Ambassador Edward Phillips Oppenheim

There was no particular reason why, after having left the Opera House, I should haveretraced my steps and taken my place once more amongst the throng of people who stoodabout in the entresol, exchanging greetings and waiting for their carriages. A backwardglance as I had been about to turn into the Place de l'Opera had arrested my somewhathurried departure. The night was young, and where else was such a sight to be seen?Besides, was it not amongst some such throng as this that the end of my search mightcome?I took up my place just inside, close to one of the pillars, and, with an unlit cigarette still inmy mouth, watched the flying chausseurs, the medley of vehicles outside, the soft flow ofwomen in their white opera cloaks and jewels, who with their escorts came streamingdown the stairs and out of the great building, to enter the waiting carriages and motor-carsdrawn up in the privileged space within the enclosure, or stretching right down into theBoulevard. I stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little nearer tothe door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most cases, to hear the directions of themen as they followed their womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case theirdestination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in most capitals, andthe cafés of Paris are never so full as after a great night at the Opera. To-night there hadbeen a wonderful performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable. Young women and old, -sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type, whose dark eyesseemed half closed with a languor partly passionate, partly of pride; women of the truerFrench type, -brilliant, smiling, vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, alwaysattractive. A few Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion stillof Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole company. I was not sorrythat I had returned. It was worth watching, this endless stream of varying types.