the Place de la Concorde.
"There you are," he exclaimed, "but you see they're closed. No more singing to-night. Now come and have a drink."
"Good idea, some more champagne."
Fandor hailed a taxi, and ordered the chauffeur to drive to the Place Pigalle. As he was shutting the door, he observed an old beggar, who evidently was afraid to ask for alms. Fandor threw him a coin as the taxi started.
It was three in the morning, and the Place Pigalle was crowded with carriages, porters and a constant ebb and flow of all sorts of people.
The journalist and his companion emerged some time later from one of the best known restaurants, both drunk, especially the stranger, who could scarcely keep his feet.
"Look here, we must go ... go..."
"Go to bed," interrupted Fandor.
"No. I know where we can go...."
"But we've been everywhere."
"We'll go to my rooms ... to her rooms ... to Susy d'Orsel ... she's my girl ... d'ye know, she's been expecting me for supper since midnight."
"More supper?"
"Of course ... there's plenty of room left."
With some difficulty the stranger managed to give the address, 247 Rue de Monceau.
"All right," said Fandor to himself, "we'll have some fun; after all, what do I risk?"
While the taxi shook them violently from side to side, Fandor grew comparatively sober. He examined his companion more closely and was surprised to see how well he carried himself in spite of his condition.
"Well," he summed up, "he certainly has a jag, but it's a royal jag!"
CHAPTER II
MOTHER CITRON'S TENANTS
"Now you've forgotten the fish knives and forks! Do you expect my lover to eat with his fingers like that old Chinaman I had for three months last year!"
Susy d'Orsel spoke with a distinct accent of the Faubourg, which contrasted strangely with her delicate and distinguished appearance.
Justine, her maid, stood staring in reply.
"But, Madame, we have lobsters...."
"What's that got to do with it, they're fish, ain't they?"
The young woman left the table and went into the adjoining room, a small drawing-room, elegantly furnished in Louis XV style.
"Justine," she called.
"Madame."
"Here's another mistake. You mustn't get red orchids. Throw these out.... I want either mauve or yellow ones.... You know those are the official colors of His Majesty."
"Queer taste his ... His Majesty has for yellow."
"What's that to do with you. Get a move on, lay the table."
"I left the pâté de foie gras in the pantry with ice round it."
"All right."
The young woman returned to the dining-room and gave a final glance at the preparations.
"He's a pretty good sort, my august lover." Justine started in surprise.
"August! Is that a new one?"
Susy d'Orsel could hardly repress a smile.
"Mind your own business. What time is it?"
"A quarter to twelve, Madame." And as the girl started to leave the room she ventured:
"I hope M. August won't forget me, to-morrow morning."
"Why, you little idiot, his name isn't August, it's Frederick-Christian! You have about as much sense as an oyster!"
The maid looked so crestfallen at this that Susy added, good-naturedly:
"That's all right, Justine, A Happy New Year anyway, and don't worry. And now get out; His Majesty wants nobody about but me this evening."
Susy d'Orsel, in spite of her physical charms, had found life hard during the earlier years of her career. She had become a mediocre actress merely for the sake of having some profession, and had frequented the night restaurants in quest of a wealthy lover. It was only after a long delay that fortune had smiled upon her, and she had arrived at the enviable position of being the mistress of a King.
Frederick-Christian II, since the death of his father three years previously, reigned over the destinies of the Kingdom of Hesse-Weimar. Young and thoroughly Parisian in his tastes, he felt terribly bored in his middle-class capital and sought every opportunity of going, incognito, to have a little fun in Paris. During each visit he never failed to call upon Susy d'Orsel, and by degrees, coming under the sway of her charms, he made her a sort of official mistress, an honor which greatly redounded to her glory and popularity.
He had installed her in a dainty little apartment in the Rue de Monceau. It was on the third floor and charmingly furnished. In fact, he was in the habit of declaring that his Queen Hedwige, despite all her wealth, was unable to make her apartment half so gracious and comfortable.
Thus it was that Susy d'Orsel waited patiently for the arrival of her royal lover, who had telephoned her he would be with her on the night of December the thirty-first.
The official residence of the King while in Paris was the Royal Palace Hotel, and although in strict incognito, he rarely spent the whole night out. But he intended to make the last night of the year an exception to this rule. As became a gallant gentleman, he had himself seen to the ordering of the supper, and a procession of waiters from the first restaurants of Paris had been busy all the afternoon preparing for the feast.
Suddenly a discreet ring at the bell startled Susy d'Orsel.
"That's queer, I didn't expect the King until one o'clock!" she exclaimed.
She opened the door and saw a young girl standing on the landing.
"Oh, it's you, Mademoiselle Pascal! What are you coming at this hour for?"
"Excuse me, Madame, for troubling you, but I've brought your lace negligée. It took me quite a time to finish, and I thought you'd probably like it as soon as possible."
"Oh, I thought it had already come. I'm very glad you brought it. There would have been a fine row if it hadn't been ready for me to wear this evening."
Susy d'Orsel took the dressmaker into her bedroom and turned on the electric lights. The gown was then unwrapped and displayed. It was of mousseline de soie, trimmed with English point.
Susy examined it with the eye of a connoisseur and then nodded her
