mendous feat of imagination and skill. The hour that he spent in
elaborating it passed like five minutes. When he had finished he threw
down his pencil.

"_Voila!_"

Then he called for his drink and emptied the glass at a gulp. We all
clamoured our admiration.

"But Paragot," cried one of the architectural students in considerable
excitement, "you are a trained architect, and a great architect! It is
the work of a genius. Garnier himself could not have done it."

Paragot whipped up the napkin from the seat and, before we could
protest, rubbed the drawing into a black smudge.

"I am a poet, painter, architect, musician and philosopher, _mon petit_
Bibi," said he, "and my name is Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot."

It was growing late and we all rose in a body--except Paragot, who made
a point of remaining after everyone had gone. He caught me by the
sleeve.

"Stay a bit to-night, my little Asticot," said he.

Usually he would not allow me to remain late at the Cafe. It was bad for
my health; and indeed I was not supposed to waste my time thus more than
two evenings a week. Paragot did not include my seeing him make a Helot
of himself as part of my education. This was the theory at the back of
his mind. In practice it had occurred at intervals since the days (or
nights) of the Lotus Club.

Paragot ordered another drink. It was astonishing, said he, how
provocative of thirst was any diversion from the ordinary course of
life.

"If the pig of the Cafe Cordier had been human," he remarked, "he would
have sat down and consumed intoxicating liquors instead of throwing
himself under the wheels of an omnibus. My son," he said with solemn
eyes, "reverence that pig. It is few of us who have his courage and
single-heartedness."

He went on talking for some time in a semi-coherent strain, clouding
over with dim allusions the vital idea which, I verily believe, had I
been a kind woman of the world instead of a raw youth of nineteen, he
would have crystallised with flaming speech. I could only listen to him
dumbly, vaguely divinatory through my love for him and I suppose through
a certain temperamental sensitiveness, but alas! uncomprehending by
reason of my inexperience in the deeps of life.

Presently he announced that he was ready to start. He walked somewhat
unsteadily to the door, his hand on my shoulder.

"My little son Asticot," said he on the threshold, "I am so far on my
road to immortality that I ought to have vi