and Medallion went
on:

"As good singing as you want to hear. You've heard the words of the
song--the river drivers sing it:

"'What is there like to the cry of the bird
That sings in its nest in the lilac tree?
A voice the sweetest you ever have heard;
It is there, it is here, ci ci!
It is there, it is here, it must roam and roam,
And wander from shore to shore,
Till I go forth and bring it home,
And enter and close my door
Row along, row along home, ci ci!'"

When Medallion had finished saying the first verse he waited, but the
Avocat said nothing; his eyes were now fastened again on that avenue
between the candles leading out into the immortal part of him--his
past; he was busy with a life that had once been spent in the fields of
Fontainebleau and in the shadow of the Pantheon.

Medallion went on:

"'What is there like to the laughing star,
Far up from the lilac tree?
A face that's brighter and finer far;
It laughs and it shines, ci, ci!
It laughs and it shines, it must roam and roam,
And travel from shore to shore,
Till I go forth and bring it home,
And house it within my door
Row along, row along home, ci, ci!'"

When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and said: "Garon, I
drink to home and woman!"

He waited. The Avocat's eyes drew away from the candles again, and he
came to his feet suddenly, swaying slightly as he did so. He caught up a
glass and, lifting it, said: "I drink to home and--" a little cold burst
of laughter came from him, he threw his head back with something like
disdain--"and the Code Napoleon!" he added abruptly.

Then he put the glass down without drinking, wheeled back, and dropped
into his chair. Presently he got up, took his keys, went over, opened
the bureau, and brought back a well-worn note-book which looked like a
diary. He seemed to have forgotten Medallion's presence, but it was not
so; he had reached the moment of disclosure which comes to every man, no
matter how secretive, when he must tell what is on his mind or die. He
opened the book with trembling fingers, took a pen and wrote, at first
slowly, while Medallion smoked:

"September 13th.--It is five-and-twenty years ago to-day--Mon Dieu, how
we danced that night on the flags before the Sorbonne! How gay we were
in the Maison Bleu! We were gay and happy--Lulie and