ne-leaves in my hair; instead
of which I have wormwood in my heart. Will you kindly take me to the
Pont Neuf."

"But dear Master," said I, "what on earth are you going to do there?"

"I have something important to say to Henri Quatre."

"You can say it better," I urged, "in the Rue des Saladiers."

"To the Pont Neuf," said he brusquely, pushing me away.

I had to humour him. We started up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It was
drizzling with rain.

"Master, we had better go home."

He did not reply, but strode on. I have a catlike dislike of rain. I
bear it philosophically, but that is all. To carry on a conversation
during a persistent downpour is beyond my powers. I might as well try to
sing under water. Paragot, who ordinarily was indifferent to the
seasons' difference, and would discourse gaily in a deluge, walked on in
silence. We went along amid the umbrella-covered crowd, past the
steaming terraces of cafes, whose lights set the kiosques in a steady
glare and sent shafts of yellow from the tops of stationary cabs, and
caught the wet passing traffic in livid flashes, and illuminated faces
to an unreal significance; down the gloom-enveloped, silent quais
frowned upon by the dim and monstrous masses of architecture, guarding
the Seine like phantasmagorical bastions, none visible in outline, but
only felt looming in the rain-filled night, until we reached the statue
of Paragot's tutelary King. And the rain fell miserably.

We were wet through. I put my hand on his dripping sleeve.

"Master, let me see you home."

He shook me off roughly.

"You can go."

"But dear Master," I implored. He put both hands behind his head and
threw out his arms in a great gesture.

"Boy! Can't you see," cried he, "that I am in agony of soul?"

I bent my head and went away. God knows what he said to Henri Quatre. I
suppose each of us has a pet Gethsemane of his own.

* * * * *

One night, a few weeks later, Blanquette appeared in my little student's
attic. Fired by the example of some of my comrades at Janot's who showed
glistening five-franc pieces as the rewards of industry, I was working
up a drawing which I fondly hoped I could sell to a comic paper. Youth
is the period of insensate ambitions.

I put down my charcoal as Blanquette entered, bare-headed--wise girl,
she scorned hats and bonnets--and as neatly dressed as her figure daily
growing dumpier would allow. She was laughing.

"Gues