wonder, for Bruant looked as if he had a temper it might be dangerous to
trifle with. And then the strange thing happened and, to our surprise
and his, our party whom he had met with such disdain saved the
situation. How we did it may be read, with the variations necessary to
fit his tale, in Harland's book. We had our own musician--her name was
not Mademoiselle Miss--and when she discovered what was the matter, and
why Bruant was scowling so abominably, she was moved by the sympathy of
one artist for another and offered her services. Bruant led her to the
piano, she accompanied him as best she could, the music being new to
her, he sang us his _St. Lazare_ and _La Soularde_, all the while
striding up and down with magnificent swagger, and was about to begin a
third of his most famous songs when the pianist arrived, his
unmistakable fright quickly lost in his bewilderment at being received
with an amiability he had not any right to expect, and allowed to slip
into his place at the piano unrebuked. Bruant, with the manners, the
courteous dignity, of a prince, led our Mademoiselle Miss back to us,
ordered bocks for her, for me--the only other woman at our table--and
for himself, touched his with his lips, bowed, was gone and singing
again before we could show that we had not yet learned to drain our
glasses in the fashion approved of at the _Mirliton_.

So far Harland used this little episode much as it happened and made the
most of it--I hope the curious who consult his story will be able to
distinguish between his realism and his romance. But being mere man he
missed the sequel which to the original of his Mademoiselle Miss and to
me was the most dramatic and disturbing event of the evening. Gradually,
as we sat at our table, watching Bruant and the company, it dawned upon
us that Bruant did not exhaust the formalities of his entertainment upon
the coming guest but reserved one for the parting guest which in our
judgment was scarcely so amusing. For to every woman who left his
_cafe_, Bruant's goodbye was a hearty kiss on both cheeks. We had the
sense to know that, as we had come to the _Mirliton_ of our own free
will, we had no more right to quarrel with its rules than to refuse to
show our press ticket at the _Salon_ turnstile, or to give up our
umbrellas at the door of the _Louvre_, or to question the regulations of
any other place in Paris we chose to go to. If we insisted upon being
made the exceptions to the farewel