"
Casimir, the handsome Pole, glib of tongue, the heir to a thousand
minor graces, reckless in outpouring the wine of Life, had truly
gone the downward way with all the abandon of his showy, insincere
race. Hawke well knew the final level of misery awaiting the
wandering, broken-down artist here in a land where really fine
music was a mere drug; where the orchestra was only a cheap lure
to enhance the cafe addition. The "Professor" was but a minor staff
officer of the grim Teutonic Oberkellner of the Brasserie Concert.
"But how shall I muzzle this Robert Macaire of the bow?" cogitated
Hawke, as he anxiously eyed the two windows of Madame Louison's
rooms, and then sternly gazed at the open front doors of the Hotel
Faucon.
A light broke in upon his brain. "There is the golden lure of the
Misses Phenie and Genie Forbes, of Chicago, U. S. A. Those madcap
girls will be easily gulled. They arrive to-morrow at nine. A few
stage asides, as to the stock romance of every Polish upstart, will
do the trick!"
"Russian brutality, fugitive Prince, Siberian wanderings, romantic
escape, killed the Russian general who burned his chateau; all
that sort of thing will enchant these. This may occupy Casimir and
leave me free. When the devil is idle he catches flies, and under
the cover of this rosy glow of romance I will get away to India,
but only after Madame Alixe Delavigne goes.
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