ring of
laurels at the mansion of some princess of the royal blood. In reality,
he was going to see one of his Conservatoire friends, a large, lanky
dowdy, as swarthy as a mole and full of pretensions, who was destined for
the tragic line of character, and inflicted upon her lover Athalie's
dream, Camille's imprecations, and Phedre's monologue.

After paying for the refreshments, Sillery gave his arm to Amedee, and,
followed by the three Merovingians, they left the cafe. Forcing a way
through the crowd which obstructed the sidewalk of the Faubourg
Montmartre he conducted his guests to Pere Lebuffle's table d'hote, which
was situated on the third floor of a dingy old house in the Rue
Lamartine, where a sickening odor of burnt meat greeted them as soon as
they reached the top of the stairs. They found there, seated before a
tablecloth remarkable for the number of its wine-stains, two or three
wild-looking heads of hair, and four or five shaggy beards, to whom Pere
Lebuffle was serving soup, aided by a tired-looking servant. The name
under which Sillery had designated the proprietor of the table d'hote
might have been a nickname, for this stout person in his shirt-sleeves
recommended himself to one's attentions by his bovine face and his
gloomy, wandering eyes. To Amedee's amazement, Pere Lebuffle called the
greater part of his clients "thou," and as soon as the newcomers were
seated at table, Amedee asked Sillery, in a low voice, the cause of this
familiarity.

"It is caused by the hard times, my dear Violette," responded the editor
of 'La Guepe' as he unfolded his napkin. "There is no longer a 'Maecenas'
or 'Lawrence the Magnificent.' The last patron of literature and art is
Pere Lebufle. This wretched cook, who has perhaps never read a book or
seen a picture, has a fancy for painters and poets, and allows them to
cultivate that plant, Debt, which, contrary to other vegetables, grows
all the more, the less it is watered with instalments. We must pardon the
good man," said he, lowering his voice, "his little sin--a sort of
vanity. He wishes to be treated like a comrade and friend by the artists.
Those who have several accounts brought forward upon his ledger, arrive
at the point of calling him 'thou,' and I, alas! am of that number.
Thanks to that, I am going to make you drink something a little less
purgative than the so-called wine which is turning blue in that carafe,
and of which I advise you to be suspicious. I say,