orning at 'craps' from his friend
Pierre. Pierre was another employee of the printing house, Adolphe's
comrade in his study of the mysteries of Paris streets, and now his
rival. They were both in love with the same girl, the fifteen-year-old
daughter of the keeper of 'La Prunelle' Cafe, and her favor was often
the prize of the morning's game.

"Now and then this rivalry between the two young Parisians would drop
into a hand-to-hand fight. I myself was witness to such a skirmish one
day, in front of 'La Prunelle.' The rivals pulled each other's hair
mightily while the manuscripts flew about over the pavement, and
Virginie, in her short skirts, stood at the door of the cafe and
laughed until she seemed about to shake to pieces.

"Pierre was the strongest, and Adolphe came off with a bloody nose. He
gathered up his manuscripts in grim silence and left the battlefield
and the still laughing Virginie with an expression of deep anger on
his wounded face.

"The following day, when I teased him a little because of his defeat,
he smiled a sly smile and remarked:

"'Yes, but I won a franc from him, the big stupid animal. And so it
was I, after all, who took Virginie out that evening. We went to the
Cafe "Neant," where I let them put me in the coffin and pretend to be
decaying, to amuse her. She thought it was lots of fun.'

"One morning Lucien had come for me as usual, put me on the divan, and
seated himself at his writing table. He was just putting the last
words to his novel, and the table was entirely covered with the
scattered leaves, closely written. I could just see his neck as he sat
there, a thin-sinewed, expressive neck. He bent over his work, blind
and deaf for anything else. I lay there and gazed out over the tops of
the trees in the park up into the blue summer sky. The window on the
left side of the desk stood wide open, for it was a warm and sultry
day. I sipped my whisky slowly. The air was heavy, and thunder
threatened in the distance. After a little while the clouds gathered
together, heavy, low-hanging, copper-hued, real thunder clouds, and
the trees in the park rustled softly. The air was stifling, and lay
heavy as lead on my breast.

"'Lucien!'

"Lucien did not hear or see anything, his pen flew over the paper.

"I fell back lazily on my divan.

"Then suddenly, there was a mighty tumult. A strong gust of wind swept
through the street, bending the trees in the gardens quite out of my
horizon. With a