midnight
The opera was just out , when we reached our table , close to the band . Beauty and the Beast were arriving , and wraps of sheen and lace were being slipped from fair shoulders into the fat waiting hands of the garçons , while the busy maître d'hôtel beamed with his nightly smile and jotted down the orders . The snug supper room glittered with light , clean linen and shining glass . Now that the theatres were out , it had become awake with the chatter with which these little midnight suppers begin -- suppers that so often end in confidences , jealousy and even tears , that need only the merriest tone of a gipsy 's fiddle to turn to laughter . Boldi is an expert at this . He watches those to whom he plays , singling out the one who needs his fiddle most , and to-night he was watching de Savignac . We had finished our steaming dish of lobster , smothered in a spiced sauce that makes a cold dry wine only half quench one 's thirst , and were proceeding with a crisp salad when Boldi , with a rushing crescendo slipped into a delicious waltz .