lake halted before a house that,
but for a certain prosperity of stained-glass window and dark-green
paint, would have seemed a common wine shop.

"Max," he said, "do you remember the famous night when we went to the
Bal Tabarin, and saw much wine spilled? It was here I was first going to
bring you then."

"Here?"

"This very place! 'Tis one of the old artistic _cabarets_ of
Paris--grown a bit too big for its shoes now, like the rest of
Montmartre, but still retaining a flavor. What do you say to turning
in?"

"I say 'yes.'"

"Come along, then! I hope 'twon't disappoint you! There's a good deal of
rubbish here, but a scattering of grain among the chaff. Ah, messieurs!
Good-evening!"

This last was addressed with cordiality to a knot of men gathered inside
the doorway of the _cabaret_, all of whom rose politely from their
chairs at Blake's entry.

Max, peering curiously through the tobacco smoke that veiled the place,
received an impression of a room--rather, of a shop--possessed of
tables, chairs, a small circular counter where glasses and bottles
winked and gleamed, and of walls hung with a truly Parisian collection
of impressionist studies and clever caricatures.

"Monsieur is interested?"

He turned, to meet the eyes of the host, a stout and affable Frenchman,
who by right divine held first place among the little group of loungers;
but before he could frame a reply, Blake answered for him.

"He is an artist, M. Fruvier, and finds all life interesting."

M. Fruvier bowed with much subtle comprehension.

"Then possibly it will intrigue him to step inside, and hear our little
concert. We are about to commence."

Blake nodded in silent acquiescence; the knot of men bowed quickly and
stiffly; and Max found himself being led across the bare, sawdust-strewn
floor into an inner and larger room--a holy of holies--where the light
was dimmer and the air more cool.

Here, a scattered audience was assembled--a score or so of individuals,
sober of dress, unenthusiastic of demeanor, sitting in twos and threes,
sipping beer or liqueurs and waiting for the concert to begin.

Max's eyes wandered over this collection of people while Blake sought
for seats, but his glance and his interest passed on almost immediately
to the walls, where, as in the outer room, pictures ranged from floor to
ceiling.

The seats were chosen; a white-aproned waiter claimed an order, and
Blake gave one as if from habit.

"And now, boy,