ns, the inscription more than half
obliterated--

ALEXIS DIMITRIEVITCH KASGHINE

Ne a MOSCOU, le 20 JANVIER, 1823,

MORT a PARIS, le 20 DECEMBRE, 1884.

_Priez pour lui_.

A RE-INCARNATION

We were, according to our nightly habit, in possession of the Cafe des
Souris--dear Cafe des Souris, that is no more; and our assiduous
patronage rumour alleges to have been the death of it--we were in
possession of the Cafe des Souris, a score or so of us, chiefly
English speakers, and all votaries of one or other of the
'quatre-z-arts,' when the door swung open, and he entered.

Now, the entrance of anybody not a member of our particular _cenacle_
into the Cafe des Souris, we, who felt (I don't know why) that we had
proprietary rights in the establishment, could not help deeming
somewhat in the nature of an unwarranted intrusion; so we stopped our
talk for an instant, and stared at him: a man of medium stature,
heavily built, with hair that fell to his shoulders, escaping from
beneath a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat, knee breeches like a
bicyclist's, and, in lieu of overcoat, a sort of doublet, or magnified
cape, of buff-coloured cloth.

He supported our examination, and the accompanying interval of
silence, which ordinary flesh and blood might have found embarassing,
with more than composure--with, it seemed to me, a dimly perceptible,
subcutaneous smile, as of satisfaction--and seated himself at the only
vacant table. This world held nothing human worthy to rivet our
attention longer than thirty seconds, whence, very soon, we were hot
in debate again. It was the first Sunday in May; I need hardly add
that our subject-matter was the _Vernissage_, at which the greater
number of us had assisted.

For myself, however, I could not forbid my gaze to wander back from
time to time upon the stranger: an indulgence touching which I felt
the less compunction, in that he had (it was a fair inference) got
himself up with a deliberate view to attracting just such notice. Else
why the sombrero and knickerbockers, the flowing locks and eccentric
yellow cloak? Nay, I think it may have been in part this very note of
undisguised vanity in the man that made it difficult to keep one's
eyes off him: it tickled the sense of humour, and challenged the
curiosity. What would his state of mind be, who, in the dotage of the
Nineteenth Century, went laboriously out of his way to cultivate a
fragmentary resemblance to--say a spurious Vandy