invitation to supper. I have
almost had a chance of tasting them."

"And down there--those large golden fruit, the foliage of which
resembles a trophy of savage sabre blades! They are called pineapples,
and are the pippins of the tropics."

"That is a matter of indifference to me," said Marcel. "So far as fruits
are concerned, I prefer that piece of beef, that ham, or that simple
gammon of bacon, cuirassed with jelly as transparent as amber."

"You are right," replied Rodolphe. "Ham is the friend of man, when he
has one. However, I would not repulse that pheasant."

"I should think not; it is the dish of crowned heads."

And as, continuing on their way, they met joyful processions proceeding
homewards, to do honor to Momus, Bacchus, Comus, and all the other
divinities with names ending in "us," they asked themselves who was the
Gamacho whose wedding was being celebrated with such a profusion of
victuals.

Marcel was the first who recollected the date and its festival.

"It is Christmas Eve," said he.

"Do you remember last year's?" inquired Rodolphe.

"Yes," replied Marcel. "At Momus's. It was Barbemuche who stood treat. I
should never have thought that a delicate girl like Phemie could have
held so much sausage."

"What a pity that Momus has cut off our credit," said Rodolphe.

"Alas," said Marcel, "calendars succeed but do not resemble one
another."

"Would not you like to keep Christmas Eve?" asked Rodolphe.

"With whom and with what?" inquired the painter.

"With me."

"And the coin?"

"Wait a moment," said Rodolphe, "I will go into the cafe, where I know
some people who play high. I will borrow a few sesterces from some
favorite of fortune, and I will get something to wash down a sardine or
a pig's trotter."

"Go," said Marcel. "I am as hungry as a dog. I will wait for you here,"
Rodolphe went into the cafe where he knew several people. A gentleman
who had just won three hundred francs at cards made a regular treat of
lending the poet a forty sous piece, which he handed over with that ill
humor caused by the fever of play. At another time and elsewhere than
at a card-table, he would very likely have been good for forty francs.

"Well?" inquired Marcel, on seeing Rodolphe return.

"Here are the takings," said the poet, showing the money.

"A bite and a sup," said Marcel.

With this small sum they were however able to obtain bread, wine, cold
meat, tobacco, fire and light.

They returned