as there, and Amedee, who had until now lived in a dark
hiding-place, blossomed out in this warm atmosphere.

After a horrible dessert of cheese and prunes, Pere Lebuffle's guests
dispersed. Sillery escorted Amedee and the three Merovingians to the
little, sparsely furnished first floor in the Rue Pigalle, where he
lived; and half a dozen other lyric poets, who might have furnished some
magnificent trophies for an Apache warrior's scalping-knife, soon came
to reenforce the club which met there every Wednesday evening.

Seats were wanting at the beginning, but Sillery drew from a closet an
old black trunk which would hold two, and contented himself, as master
of the house, with sitting from time to time, with legs dangling, upon
the marble mantel. The company thus found themselves very comfortable;
still more so when an old woman with a dirty cap had placed upon the
table, in the middle of the room, six bottles of beer, some odd glasses,
and a large flowered plate upon which was a package of cut tobacco with
cigarette paper. They began to recite their verses in a cloud of smoke.
Each recited his own, called upon by Sillery; each would rise without
being urged, place his chair in front of him, and leaning one hand upon
its back, would recite his poem or elegy. Certainly some of them were
wanting in genius, some were even ludicrous. Among the number was a
little fellow with a cadaverous face, about as large as two farthings'
worth of butter, who declared, in a long speech with flat rhymes,
that an Asiatic harem was not capable of quenching his ardent love of
pleasure. A fat-faced fellow with a good, healthy, country complexion,
announced, in a long story, his formal intention of dying of a decline,
on account of the treason of a courtesan with a face as cold as marble;
while, if the facts were known, this peaceable boy lived with an artless
child of the people, brightening her lot by reducing her to a state of
slavery; she blacked his boots for him every morning before he left the
house.

In spite of these ridiculous things, there were present some genuine
poets who knew their business and had real talent. These filled Amedee
with respect and fear, and when Sillery called his name, he arose with a
dry mouth and heavy heart.

"It is your turn now, you newcomer! Recite us your 'Before Sebastopol.'"

And so, thoroughbred that he was, Amedee overcame his emotion and
recited, in a thrilling voice, his military rhymes, that