ing when I delivered my tattered copy of "Paradise Lost" to
Paragot instead of the greasy washing book: and if my narrative glowed
rosier with poetic illusion than the pages on which it has been set
down, pray forgive nineteen for seeing things in a different light and
perspective from a hundred and fifty. In my description of the Lotus
Club, for instance, I felt instinctively that Madame de Verneuil would
wince at the sound of tripe; I conveyed to her my own childish
impression of the magnificence of Paragot's bedchamber, and the story of
our wanderings became an Idyll of No Man's Land.

"And what is he doing now?" We had grown so confidential that we
exchanged smiles.

"He is cultivating philosophy," said I.

Perhaps it was a sign of my development that I could detect a little
spot of clay in my idol.

We had gone south, past the Observatoire to Montrouge, and had turned
back before I realised that we were in the Boulevard Saint-Michel again
near the prearranged end of my drive.

"Do you know why I am so glad to have met you to-day?" she asked. "I
think--indeed I know I can trust you. I am in great trouble and I have
an idea that your Master can help me."

She looked at me so earnestly, so wistfully, her face seemed to grow of
a sudden so young and helpless, that all my boy's fantastic chivalry was
roused.

"My Master would lay down his life for you, Madame," I cried. "And so
would I."

"Even if I never, never, in this world forgave him?"

"You would forgive him in the next, Madame," I answered, scarce knowing
what I said, "and he would be contented."

The carriage stopped at the appointed place. I felt as if I were about
to descend from the side of an Olympian goddess to sordid humanity, to
step from the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon on to the common
earth. It was I who looked wistful.

"May I come to see you, Madame?"

The quick fear came into her eyes.

"Not as yet, Mr. Asticot," she said holding out her hand. "My husband is
queer tempered at times. I will write to you."

The carriage drove off. For the second time she had left me with her
husband on her lips. I had forgotten him completely. I stamped my foot
on the pavement.

"He is a scaly vulture," said I, echoing Paragot. Gods! How I hated the
poor man.

* * * * *

One evening, about a week after this, some seven or eight of us were
gathered around Paragot's table at the Cafe Delphine. Two were