I--two rooms and
a few francs ahead every week. That night we danced and poured out the
light wine, because we were to be married to-morrow. Perhaps there would
be a child, if the priest blessed us, she whispered to me as we watched
the soft-travelling moon in the gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, we
danced. There was an artist with us. I saw him catch Lulie about the
waist, and kiss her on the neck. She was angry, but I did not think
of that; I was mad with wine. I quarrelled with her, and said to her a
shameful thing. Then I rushed away. We were not married the next day;
I could not find her. One night, soon after, there was a revolution of
students at Mont Parnasse. I was hurt. I remember that she came to me
then and nursed me, but when I got well she was gone. Then came the
secret word from the Government that I must leave the country or go
to prison. I came here. Alas! it is long since we danced before the
Sorbonne, and supped at the Maison Bleu. I shall never see again the
gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, that was a mad night five-and-twenty
years ago!"

His pen went faster and faster. His eyes lighted up, he seemed quite
forgetful of Medallion's presence. When he finished, a fresh change came
over him. He gathered his thin fingers in a bunch at his lips, and made
an airy salute to the warm space between the candles. He drew himself
together with a youthful air, and held his grey head gallantly. Youth
and age in him seemed almost grotesquely mingled. Sprightly notes from
the song of a cafe chantant hovered on his thin, dry lips. Medallion,
amused, yet with a hushed kind of feeling through all his nerves, pushed
the Avocat's tumbler till it touched his fingers. The thin fingers
twined round it, and once more he came to his feet. He raised the glass.
"To--" for a minute he got no further--"To the wedding-eve!" he said,
and sipped the hot wine. Presently he pushed the little well-worn book
over to Medallion. "I have known you fifteen years--read!" he said. He
gave Medallion a meaning look out of his now flashing eyes. Medallion's
bony face responded cordially. "Of course," he answered, picked up the
book, and read what the Avocat had written. It was on the last page.
When he had finished reading, he held the book musingly. His whim had
suddenly taken on a new colour. The Avocat, who had been walking up and
down the room, with the quick step of a young man, stopped before him,
took the book from him, turned to the firs