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his striped trousers instantly assuming the drape of trousers perfectly disciplined by their occupant, and said, “Morning, André.”
    â€œThat Nick,” André said, without preliminary. “He continues to speak Italian to Fritzl. It is possible—it is even probable—that he does so within earshot of the patrons. I am distressed, William.”
    A shadow of reciprocal distress crossed the face of the maître d’hôtel. William shook his head; he made soft clucking sounds.
    â€œI know,” he said. “I have spoken to him. He promises. It appears that he forgets. It is, of course, true that he is Italian, and that Fritzl is Hungarian and—”
    â€œAt the Restaurant Maillaux there are no waiters who are Italian,” André said. “There are no waiters who are Hungarian. All are French. If they speak among themselves, they speak in French. Many of the patrons can tell when waiters are speaking in French and when in Italian. It is a flaw, William. A serious flaw. It is undermining.”
    William, who had come from England two years after André had come from France and had an accent in English, French and, when he chose to speak it, German, which was completely unidentifiable, nodded agreement and permitted his face to show pain.
    â€œI have explained,” he assured André. “I have said, ‘At André’s we are all French.’ I have said this in English, Italian, German, Polish and even, on occasion, in French. They all know. Even the busses.”
    â€œA bus does not speak,” André said. “That is understood.”
    The thought of busses appeared to cause him pain. “Not even to another bus,” he said. “That I cannot permit. You will arrange it, William.”
    â€œO.K.,” William said. “You’re the boss.”
    â€œ Naturellement ,” André said. He looked at the slim white-gold watch on his wrist. He compared it with the discreet clock behind the bar. He motioned toward the coatroom.
    â€œHe has arrived?” André said.
    â€œEarly,” William told him. “You said early, Hermann?”
    â€œAt ten-thirty,” Herman said. “A few minutes after. I had just arrived.” He nodded. “It is my day to check the bar, you understand,” he said. “To prepare my—requisition.” He paused momentarily before the last word, and said it with a certain care.
    â€œFor lunch also, then,” André said. “It is—” Now he hesitated. William looked at him. “Admirable,” André finished. “An admirable example.”
    André looked at his watch again, and noted it was nearing noon.
    â€œSoon,” he said, “they will begin. The visitors. The little ones. You will see to them, William. I shall consult.”
    William merely nodded, this time. Daily, at a few minutes before noon, André presented to William the task of taking care of the “little ones”—the odd people, the tourists, the hesitant explorers of the great world, the people who thought noon was a time for lunch at the Restaurant Maillaux in East Fiftieth. Among them there were none who could merit attention from André Maillaux himself, who could merit even a glimpse of André Maillaux himself. Even William was beyond their deserts. One of the greater captains would have done as well. Who were they to know the difference? There was, however, an issue of noblesse oblige .
    William did not return to the bar stool. He walked to the head of the three wide steps which descended from the bar to the main dining-room and looked out over what was, for the time, his domain. The tables were set; the waiters were waiting, the bus boys were inconspicuous; the captains, minor, were circulating slowly; the captains, major were at their stations, Henri a little to the right, Armand a little to the left. All was in readiness. William returned to the foyer,