r again--why was it that he could have sworn that
he had been seated at that same place only last Thursday? At last he
thought he understood. It was Sandoz who had not changed, who remained
as obstinate as regards his habits of friendship, as regards his habits
of work, as radiant at being able to receive his friends at the board of
his new home as he had formerly been, when sharing his frugal bachelor
fare with them. A dream of eternal friendship made him changeless.
Thursdays similar one to another followed and followed on until the
furthest stages of their lives. All of them were eternally together, all
started at the self-same hour, and participated in the same triumph!

Sandoz must have guessed the thought that kept Claude mute, for he said
to him across the table, with his frank, youthful smile:

'Well, old man, here you are again! Ah, confound it! we missed you
sorely. But, you see, nothing is changed; we are all the same--aren't
we, all of you?'

They answered by nodding their heads--no doubt, no doubt!

'With this difference,' he went on, beaming--'with this difference, that
the cookery is somewhat better than in the Rue d'Enfer! What a lot of
messes I did make you swallow!'

After the _bouillabaisse_ there came a _civet_ of hare; and a roast fowl
and salad terminated the dinner. But they sat for a long time at table,
and the dessert proved a protracted affair, although the conversation
lacked the fever and violence of yore. Every one spoke of himself and
ended by relapsing into silence on perceiving that the others did not
listen to him. With the cheese, however, when they had tasted some
burgundy, a sharp little growth, of which the young couple had ordered a
cask out of the profits of Sandoz's first novel, their voices rose to a
higher key, and they all grew animated.

'So you have made an arrangement with Naudet, eh?' asked Mahoudeau,
whose bony cheeks seemed to have grown yet more hollow. 'Is it true that
he guarantees you fifty thousand francs for the first year?'

Fagerolles replied, with affected carelessness, 'Yes, fifty thousand
francs. But nothing is settled; I'm thinking it over. It is hard to
engage oneself like that. I am not going to do anything precipitately.'

'The deuce!' muttered the sculptor; 'you are hard to please. For twenty
francs a day I'd sign whatever you like.'

They all now listened to Fagerolles, who posed as being wearied by
his budding success. He still had the same good