noys many people. The young man being annoyed,
cast the fruits of his genius into the fire, tore up his purple and fine
linen and smashed his furniture with a Crusader's mace which happened to
be hanging by way of an ornament on the wall. It's made of steel with a
knob full of spikes, and weighs about nine pounds. I know nothing like
it for destroying a Louis Quinze table, or for knocking the works out of
a clock. If you're good, my son, you shall have one when you grow up."

I looked gratefully at him. Not content with his kindness to me then, he
would be my benefactor still when I reached manhood.

"The young man then packed a valise full of necessaries and went out
into the street. It was a rainy November evening. He walked along the
quays through the lamp-lit drizzle till he came to the statue of Henri
Quatre. The Pont Neuf was alive with traffic and the swiftly passing
lights of vehicles threw conflicting gleams over the wet statue. The
gas-lamps flickered in the wind." Paragot flickered his long fingers
dramatically, to illustrate the gas-lamps. "On all sides rose vague
masses of building--the Louvre away beyond the bridge, the frowning mass
of the Conciergerie--the towering turrets of Notre Dame--swelling like
billows against the sky. Pale reflections came from the river. Do you
see the picture, my little Asticot? And the young man clutched the
railings that surround the plinth of the statue, and caught sight of the
face of Henri Quatre, and Henri Quatre looked at him so kindly that he
said: '_Mon bon roi_, you are of the South like myself: I am leaving
Paris to go into the wide world, but I don't know where in the wide
world to go to.' _And the King nodded his head and pointed to the Gare
de Lyon._ And the young man took off his hat and said, '_Mon bon roi_, I
thank you!' He went to the Gare de Lyon and found a train just starting
for Italy. So he went to Italy. I have a great respect for Henri
Quatre."

"And what happened to him then, Master?" I asked, after a breathless
pause.

"He became a vagabond philosopher," replied Paragot, refilling his
porcelain pipe.

No argument has ever been able to convince Paragot that the statue did
not nod its head and point the way to Italy. For some years I myself
believed it; but at last it became obvious that the flashing gleams of
light over the wet statue had made him the victim of a trick of the
eyes. I think the only serious offence I ever gave Paragot was when I
p