ke your way; but Blanquette, being a woman, must remain
under the roof of the _paterfamilias_ which is myself."

I foresaw trouble.

* * * * *

When he left me after dinner to pay his promised visit to Joanna, I went
in quest of Cazalet of the sandals, with whom I spent a profitable
evening discussing the question of Subject in Art. Bringard and Bonnet
and himself had rented a dilapidated stable in Menilmontant which they
had fitted up as a studio, and, as his two colleagues were away, Cazalet
had displayed his own horrific canvases all over the place. The
argument, if I remember right, was chiefly concerned with Cazalet's
subject in art over which we fought vehemently; but though the sabre of
his father hung proudly on the wall, he did not challenge me to a duel.
Instead, he invited me to join the trio in the rent of the studio, and
I, suddenly struck with the advantage and importance of having a studio
of my own, gladly accepted the proposal. When one can say "my studio,"
one feels that one is definitely beginning one's professional career. I
left him to sleep on some contrivance of sacking which he called a bed,
and trudged homewards to the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Curiosity tempted
me to look into the Cafe Delphine. It was deserted. Madame Boin opened
her fat arms wide and had it not been for the intervening counter would
have clasped me to her bosom. What had become of Monsieur Paragot? It
was more than a fortnight since he had been in the cafe. I lied, drank a
glass of beer and went home. I could not take away Paragot's character
by declaring his reversion to respectability.

CHAPTER XVI

MY taking the share of the stable-studio in Menilmontant had one
unlooked-for result.

"You must paint my portrait," said Joanna.

"Madame," I cried, "if I only could!"

"What is your charge for portraits, Mr. Asticot?"

Paragot set down his tea-cup and looked at me with a shade of anxiety.
We were having tea at the Hotel Meurice.

"The pleasure of looking a long time at the sitter, Madame," said I.

"That is very well said, my son," Paragot remarked.

"You will not make a fortune that way. However, if you _will_ play for
love this time--"

She smiled and handed me the cakes.

"Where did you say your studio was?"

"But, Madame, you can't go there!" I expostulated. "It is in the slums
of Menilmontant beyond the Cemetery of Pere Lachaise. The place is all
tumbling down--and C