give him a good room… a good price, eh?” she said cunningly. “He will bring hundreds of people here to the hotel—”
“But yes, Countess,” said Yvonne. “Perfectly.”
“The best! The best!” the old woman cried. “He comes from one of the most prominent families in America—ah—hah—hah! You will see!” She chuckled with mysterious cunning. “I shall make you all rich and famous before I’m through… I know all the rich Americans…. Hah—hah…. They will all come here now when he has written about us…. The New York Times, Yvonne,” she whispered gloatingly, “the paper all the rich Americans read…. Tell Madame Vatel what has happened…. Ah, a great thing, Yvonne…. a great thing for us all—see!” she whispered mysteriously, pointing towards the bewildered youth—“the head, Yvonne! The head! You can tell by the head, Yvonne,” she whispered. “What a clever head, Yvonne…. The New York Times, eh?…” she chuckled craftily, “that all the clever writers write for!… Tell Vatel!” she whispered gloatingly, rubbing her little claw-like hands together. “Tell Madame…. Tell everyone…. He must have the best,” she muttered with conspiratorial secrecy. “The best.”
“But yes, Countess,” Yvonne said smoothly. “Monsieur shall have nothing but the best. Number Seven, I think,” she said reflectively. “Oui! Number Seven!” She nodded her head decisively with satisfaction. “I am sure Monsieur will like the room…. Jean! Jean!” She clapped her hands sharply to the attentive porter, who now sprang forward nimbly. “Apportez les baggages de Monsieur au Numéro Sept.”
“But—but—the price?” the youth said awkwardly.
“The price,” said Yvonne, “to Monsieur is—twelve francs. To others—that is deeferent, eh?” she said with a significant smile and an expressive shrug. “But since Monsieur is a friend of the Countess, the price will be twelve francs.”
“Cheap! Cheap!” the Countess muttered. “And now, my boy,” she said coaxingly, taking him by the arm, “you must take your meals here, too…. The cuisine!… Ah-h! Merveilleuse!” she whispered, making a small rhapsodic gesture with one hand. “You will eat here, too, my boy—eh?”
He nodded dumbly, and the old woman turned immediately to Yvonne with a look of cunning triumph, saying: “Did you hear, Yvonne?… Do you see?… He will take his meals here, too…. Tell Vatel…. Tell Madame…. I know all the rich Americans…. They will all
