the
collection in his filthy pocket, and shuffles on to the next cafe. It
will go so far at least toward paying for his absinthe. He is hungry,
but it is the absinthe for which he is working. He is a "marchand de
megots"; it is his profession.

[Illustration: TERRACE TAVERNE DU PANTHEON]

One finds every type of restaurant, tavern, and cafe along the "Boul'
Miche." There are small restaurants whose plat du jour might be traced
to some faithful steed finding a final oblivion in a brown sauce and
onions--an important item in a course dinner, to be had with wine
included for one franc fifty. There are brasseries too, gloomy by day
and brilliant by night (dispensing good Munich beer in two shades, and
German and French food), whose rich interiors in carved black oak,
imitation gobelin, and stained glass are never half illumined until the
lights are lit.

[Illustration: A "TYPE"]

All day, when the sun blazes, and the awnings are down, sheltering those
chatting on the terrace, the interiors of these brasseries appear dark
and cavernous.

The clientele is somber too, and in keeping with the place; silent
poets, long haired, pale, and always writing; serious-minded lawyers,
lunching alone, and fat merchants who eat and drink methodically.

Then there are bizarre cafes, like the d'Harcourt, crowded at night with
noisy women tawdry in ostrich plumes, cheap feather boas, and much
rouge. The d'Harcourt at midnight is ablaze with light, but the crowd is
common and you move on up the boulevard under the trees, past the shops
full of Quartier fashions--velvet coats, with standing collars buttoning
close under the chin; flamboyant black silk scarfs tied in a huge bow;
queer broad-brimmed, black hats without which no "types" wardrobe is
complete.

On the corner facing the square, and opposite the Luxembourg gate, is
the Taverne du Pantheon. This is the most brilliant cafe and restaurant
of the Quarter, forming a V with its long terrace, at the corner of the
boulevard and the rue Soufflot, at the head of which towers the superb
dome of the Pantheon.

[Illustration: (view of Pantheon from Luxembourg gate)]

It is 6 P.M. and the terrace, four rows deep with little round tables,
is rapidly filling. The white-aproned garcons are hurrying about or
squeezing past your table, as they take the various orders.

"Un demi! un!" shouts the garcon.

"Deux pernod nature, deux!" cries another, and presently the "Omnibus"
in his black a