ven to-morrow he might be compelled to discard his
fictitious splendor and sink into the abyss of poverty.

"When I reached the _Cafe Semblon_," continued Mascarin, "I could not
see a single pupil, and the waiter to whom I addressed my inquiries
looked at me with the utmost contempt, for my clothes were in tatters;
but at length he condescended to inform me that the young gentlemen had
been and gone, but that they would return. I said that I would wait for
them. The man asked me if I would take anything, and when I replied in
the negative, contemptuously pointed to a chair in a distant corner,
where I patiently took my seat. I had sat for some time, when suddenly a
young man entered the _cafe_, whose face, were I to live for a century,
I shall never forget. He was perfectly livid, his features rigid, and
his eyes wild and full of anguish. He was evidently in intense agony of
mind or body. Evidently, however, it was not poverty that was oppressing
him, for as he cast himself upon a sofa, all the waiters rushed forward
to receive his orders. In a voice that was almost unintelligible,
he asked for a bottle of brandy, and pen, ink, and paper. In some
mysterious manner, the sight of this suffering brought balm to my aching
heart. The order of the young man was soon executed, and pouring out a
tumbler of brandy, he took a deep draught. The effect was instantaneous,
he turned crimson, and for a moment almost fell back insensible. I kept
my eyes on him, for a voice within me kept crying out that there was
some mysterious link connecting this man and myself, and that his life
was in some manner interwoven with mine, and that the influence he would
exercise over me would be for evil. So strongly did this idea become
rooted, that I should have left the _cafe_, had not my curiosity been so
great. In the meantime the stranger had recovered himself, and seizing
a pen, scrawled a few lines on a sheet of paper. Evidently he was not
satisfied with his composition, for after reading it over, he lit a
match and burnt the paper. He drank more brandy, and wrote a second
letter, which, too, proved a failure, for he tore it to fragments, which
he thrust into his waistcoat pocket. Again he commenced, using
greater care. It was plain that he had forgotten where he was, for he
gesticulated, uttered a broken sentence or two and evidently believed
that he was in his own house. His last letter seemed to satisfy him, and
he recopied it with care. He