itations after this
fashion to the elite of the town:

"You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M.
Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first rendering of 'Sais.'"

A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two or three
lady amateurs also sang. The notary filled the part of leader of the
orchestra with so much correctness that the bandmaster of the 190th
regiment of the line said of him, one day, at the Cafe de l'Europe.

"Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adopt the
career of an artist."

When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was always somebody
found to declare: "He is not an amateur; he is an artist, a genuine
artist."

And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:

"Oh! yes, a genuine artist," laying particular stress on the word
"genuine."

Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theatre M.
Saval paid a visit to the capital.

Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear Henri VIII. He
then took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 P.M., intending to
return by the 12:35 A.M. train, so as not to have to sleep at a hotel. He
had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie, which he concealed
under his overcoat with the collar turned up.

As soon as he set foot on the Rue d'Amsterdam, he felt himself in quite
jovial mood. He said to himself:

"Decidedly, the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has in
it something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, which
fills you with a strange longing to dance about and to do many other
things. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden, that I
have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead in this city
in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect, the great men who make
themselves a reputation in such a city! What an existence is theirs!"

And he made plans; he would have liked to know some of these celebrated
men, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an evening with them from
time to time in Paris.

But suddenly an idea struck him. He had heard allusions to little cafes
in the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men of letters, and
even musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up to Montmartre at a
slow pace.

He had two hours before him. He wanted to look about him. He passed in
front of taverns frequented by belated bohemians, gazing at the different