point
where our disappointment was on the verge of turning into impatience. It
simply meant that he did not hold to the hail-fellow-well-met
free-and-easiness which was the pose of Salis at the _Chat Noir_, but,
at the _Mirliton_, was all for ceremony and dramatic effect. At the
psychological moment he opened the door himself, a splendid creature,
half brigand, half Breton peasant, in brown corduroy jacket and
knee-breeches, high boots, red silk handkerchief tied loosely round his
neck, big wide-brimmed hat on the back of his head, the passing pose of
a poet who, I am told, rejoiced to give it up for a costume fitted to
the more congenial pastime of raising potatoes. To have seen
Toulouse-Lautrec's poster of him and his _Cabaret_ was to recognize him
at a glance.

To the noise of a strident chorus in choice _argot_, which I was
told I should be thankful I did not understand, Bruant showed us
into his _cafe_. It was more like an amateur museum, with its big
Fifteenth Century fireplace, and its brasses and tapestries on the
walls, and if the huge _Mirliton_ hanging from the ceiling was not
remarkable as a work of art, it should now, as historic symbol of
the Nineties, have a place at the _Carnavalet_ by the side of the
sign of the _Chat Noir_. When we had time to look round, we saw that
the severe ordeal through which we had passed had admitted us into
the company of a few youths in the high stocks and long hair of the
_Quartier Latin_, a _petit piou-piou_ or so, two or three stray
workmen, women whom perhaps it would be more discreet not to attempt
to classify, all seated at little tables and harmlessly occupied in
drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. The place was free from
tourists, we were the only foreigners, the handsome Aristide
evidently sang his songs for the pleasure of himself and the people.

It was after we had sat down at our little table and given the order
required of us that the incidents of the evening began to play so neatly
and effectively into Harland's plot. A scowl was on Bruant's handsome
face as he strode up and down his _cafe_-museum, for the striding, it
seemed, was only part of the regular performance. He should at the same
time have been singing the songs we had come to hear, and he could not
without the pianist who accompanied him, and the pianist had chosen
this night of all others to be late. The scowl deepened, I felt
something like a stir of uneasiness through the room, and I did not