things. Then there was the Cafe du Bas-Rhin on the Boul' Mich' where
Marie la Democrate drank fifty-five bocks in an evening against Helene
la Severe who drank fifty-three. Where are such women now, O generation
of slow worms? Where is----"

He stopped. His jaw dropped. "My God!" he exclaimed in English, rising
from his chair. We followed his gaze. Astounded, I too sprang up.

It was the Comtesse de Verneuil standing in the doorway and looking in
her frightened way into the cafe: Joanna in dark fitting toque and loose
jacket beneath which one saw a gleaming high evening dress. I noted
swiftly that she had violets in her toque. Her beauty, her rare
daintiness compelled a stupefied silence. I sped towards the door and
went with her into the street. A closed carriage stood by the kerb.

She took me by the front of my loose jacket and twisted it nervously.

"Get him out, Mr. Asticot. Tell him I must see him."

"But how did you come here?" I asked.

"I went first to the Rue des Saladiers. The servant told me I should
find him at the Cafe Delphine."

I left her outside, and re-entering, met him in the middle of the Cafe,
grasping his green hat in one hand and the pipe with the porcelain bowl
in the other. All eyes were turned anxiously towards us.

"She has come for you, Master," I whispered. "She needs you. Come."

"What does she want with me? It was all over and done with thirteen
years ago." His voice shook.

"She is waiting," said I.

I drew him to the door and he obeyed me with strange docility. He drew a
deep breath as soon as we emerged on to the wind-swept pavement.

"Gaston."

"Yes," said he.

They remained looking at each other for several seconds, agitated,
neither able to speak.

"You were very cruel to me long ago," she said at last.

My Master remained silent; the wooden stem of the pipe snapped between
his fingers and the porcelain bowl fell with a crash to the pavement.

"Very cruel, Gaston. But you can make a little reparation now, if you
like."

"I repair my cruelty to you?" He laughed as men laugh in great pain.
"Very well. It will be a fitting end to a topsy-turvy farce. What can I
do for Madame la Comtesse?"

"My husband is ill. Come to him. My carriage is here. Oh, put on your
hat and don't stand there French fashion, bareheaded. We are English."

"We are what you will," said my Master putting on his hat. "At present
however I am mystified by your lighting on me in the dustbin of