he four, who appeared to be
worthy tradesmen of the neighborhood, occupied a far table in the
small and time-begrimed room, where they played at cards for small
stakes; the rusty old gentleman sat alone with a half-emptied
beer-glass and an evening newspaper before him; the street-hawkers
were standing at the zinc, which in Paris represents our American bar,
discussing the events of the day in the hoarse-lunged, insolent tone
of their class.

Presiding over the establishment was--yes, it was Madame Podvin.
Somewhat stouter, redder of face, more piggy of eye, with more decided
whiskers, but still Madame Podvin.

She busied herself behind the zinc washing glasses, occasionally
glancing at the men in the corner, smiling upon the inebriated
camelots, and now and then casting a suspicious eye upon the quiet old
gentleman behind his beer.

Madame Podvin had retired from the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers upon the
retirement of Monsieur Podvin from public life by the State, and had
found this congenial city resort vacant by reason of death,--the
proprietor having been stabbed by one of his friendly customers over
the question of pay for a drink of four sous.

Upon the entrance of Mlle. Fouchette Madame Podvin tapped the zinc
sharply with the glass as if to knock something out of it, then
greeted the new-comer effusively.

The four men hastily gathered up their stakes and began talking about
the weather; the subdued camelots sipped their absinthe in silence;
the old gentleman fell to reading his paper with renewed interest.

"Bonjour, madame," said Mlle. Fouchette, smilingly ignoring the
private signal, though inwardly vexed.

"Mademoiselle Fouchette! Ah! how charming of you!" exclaimed Madame
Podvin, hastily wiping her hands and coming around the open end of the
bar to embrace her visitor.

Beneath the most elaborate politeness the Parisian conceals the
bitterest hatred. French politeness is mostly superficial at best,--it
often scarcely hides a cynicism that stings without words, a satire
that bites to the verge of insult. The more Frenchwomen dislike each
other the more formal and overpowering their compliments--if they do
not come to blows.

"Thank you very much, madame," Mlle. Fouchette replied, as Madame
Podvin kissed her cheeks. "Ah! you are always so gay and delightful,
madame!"

"And how lovely you have grown to be!" exclaimed the Podvin, with a
good show of enthusiasm, holding the girl off at arm's length for