THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
with the confident expectation that either one or the other of my friends would soon appear. I drank my coffee as slowly as possible, but when I had emptied the cup not one of my expected friends was there. I put the remainder of my sugar into a glass of water, and prepared my “eau-sucré” in the manner of the thrifty guests of the French cafés. I read one journal after another, sipping my sugar-water with painful slowness, but nobody came. I may have sat there more than two hours and it began to be very late. The “dame du comptoir,” to whom payment was made, yawned, and even Monsieur Louis, the attendant of the billiard table, who for more than an hour had been unoccupied, became sleepy. I still see the amiable Monsieur Louis before me, from time to time rolling the ivory balls on the billiard table with his finger from one spot to another and then looking at me. I felt as if both had become annoyed at the long time that I devoted to my cup of coffee. So I resolved to pay with my last sous and to go home. But when I got up from my chair an accident happened. By an awkward movement I pushed the coffee cup off the little table upon the marble floor, and it broke into many pieces. I thought that as a matter of course I must pay for the broken cup. I had money enough for the coffee, but not for the broken cup. The dame du comptoir exchanged glances with Monsieur Louis. Those glances darted into the depth of my guilty conscience. What should I do? At this moment several new guests came in, French students, of whom two or three began to joke with the dame du comptoir. Could I now step into this group and in my clumsy French make to the Dame du Comptoir a confession of my embarrassment? Would I not expose myself to the laughter of the whole company? In the excitement of the moment I recklessly resolved to order another cup of coffee, taking a last chance of my friends still
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