Nevertheless, he has an innate horror of the purely physical when it descends to inartistic brutality. There is much of that in Paris; and these guides advertise it; but it is filth especially arranged for the stranger. I fancy the average Parisian knows nothing about it; and if he does, he has a profound contempt for it. So has the well-intentioned stranger, but there is always an audience for this sort of thing. So when this guide approached us with the proposition to show us a selected line of vice, Barfleur took him genially in hand. “Stop a moment, now,” he said, with his high hat on the back of his head, his fur coat expansively open, and his monocled eye fixing the intruder with an inquiring gaze, “tell me one thing--have you a mother?”
The small Jew who was the industrious salesman for this particular type of ware looked his astonishment.
They are used to all sorts of set-backs--these particular guides--for they encounter all sorts of people, severely moral and the reverse; and I fancy on occasion they would be soundly trounced if it were not for the police who stand in with them and receive a modicum for their protection. They certainly learn to understand something of the type of man who will listen to their proposition; for I have never seen them more than ignored and I have frequently seen them talked to in an off-hand way, though I was pleased to note that their customers were few.
This particular little Jew had a quizzical, screwed-up expression on his face, and did not care to answer the question at first; but resumed his announcement of his various delights and the price it would all cost.
“Wait, wait, wait,” insisted Barfleur, “answer my question. Have you a mother?”
“What has that got to do with it?” asked the guide. “Of course I have a mother.”
“Where is she?” demanded Barfleur authoritatively.
“She’s at home,” replied the guide, with an air of mingled astonishment, irritation and a desire not to lose a customer.
“Does she know that you are out here on the streets of Paris doing what you are doing to-night?” he continued with a very noble air.
“Answer me,” persisted Barfleur, still fixing him solemnly through his monocle. “Does she?”
“Why, no, of course she doesn’t,” replied the Jew sheepishly.