ted in the Rue des Cordiers. Mimi la Blonde was
the _demoiselle du comptoir_. Ah _bigre_! There are no such _demoiselles
du comptoir_ now. Exquisite. Ah!" He blew a kiss from the tips of his
long nails.

"You are very impolite, Monsieur Paragot," cried Madame Boin from her
throne.

"Listen, Madame," said he, "to the story of the pig and you shall judge.
The whole quartier was mad for Mimi, including a pig. Yes, a great fat
clean pig with sentimental eyes. He belonged to the _charcutier_
opposite. I am telling you the authentic history of the _Quartier_.
Every day the devoted animal would stand at the door and gaze at Mimi
with adoration--ah! but such an adoration, my children, an adoration,
respectful, passionate, without hope. Only now and then his poor
sensitive snout quivered his despair. Sometimes happier rivals, with two
legs, _mais pour ca pas moins cochons que lui_, admitted him into the
cafe. He would sit before the counter, his little tail well arranged
behind him, his ears cocked up politely, his eyes full of tears--he wept
like a cow this poor Nepomucene--they called him Nepomucene--and when
Mimi looked at him he would utter little cries of the heart like a
strangulated troubadour. Ah, it was hopeless this passion; but for one
long year he never wavered. The _Quartier_ respected him. Of him it was
said: "Love is given to us as a measure to gauge our power of
suffering." Suddenly Mimi disappeared. She married a certain Godiveau, a
charcoal merchant in the vicinity. Nepomucene stood all day by the door
with haggard eyes. Then knowing she would return no more, he walked with
a determined air to the roadway of the Boul' Mich' and cast himself
beneath the wheels of an omnibus. He committed suicide."

Paragot stopped abruptly and finished his absinthe. There was vociferous
applause. I have never met anyone with his gift of magical narration.
Hercule was summoned amid a confused hubbub and received orders for
eight or nine different kinds of drink. We were fantastic in our
potations in those days.

"Ah!" said Paragot, excited as usual by his success, "_ou sont les
neiges d'antan_? Where is the good Pere Cordier of the Cafe Cordier? He
would play billiards with his nose, and a little pug nose at that, my
children. When it grew greasy he would chalk it deliberately. Once he
made a break of two hundred and forty-five. A champion! The Cafe Cordier
itself? Swept long ago into the limbo of dear immemorable dissolute