e youth, I sighed at my master's
narrowness. He was hopelessly behind the times. I dropped the argument
and hunted for my cap.

We found the Cafe Delphine fairly full. Madame Boin, whom the past few
months had provided with a few more rolls of fat round her neck, gave a
little gasp as she caught sight of Paragot, and held out her hand over
the counter.

"Is it really you, Monsieur Paragot? One sees you no more. How is that?
But it is charming. Ah? You have been _en voyage_? In England? _On dit
que c'est beau la-bas._ And where will you sit? Your place is taken. It
is Monsieur Papillard, the poet, who has sat there for a month. We will
find another table. There is one that is free."

She pointed to a draughty, unconsidered table by the door. Paragot
looked at it, then at Madame Boin and then at his own private and
particular table usurped by Monsieur Papillard and his associates, and
swore a stupefied oath of considerable complication. A weird, pug-nosed,
pig-eyed, creature with a goatee beard scarce masking a receding chin,
sat in the sacred seat against the wall. His hat and cloak were hung on
Paragot's peg. He was reading a poem to half a dozen youths who seemed
all to be drinking _mazagrans_, or coffee in long glasses. They combined
an air of intellectual intensity with one of lyrical enthusiasm, like
little owls pretending to be larks. Not one of the old set was there to
smile a welcome.

We stood by the counter listening to the poem. When Monsieur Papillard
had ended, the youths broke into applause.

"_C'est superbe!_"

"_Un chef d'oeuvre, cher maitre._"

They called the pug-nosed creature, _cher maitre_!

"It is demented idiocy," murmured my astounded master.

At that moment entered Felicien Garbure, a down-at-heel elderly man, who
had been wont to sit at Paragot's table. He was one of those parasitic
personages not unknown in the _Quartier_, who contrived to attach
themselves to the special circle of a cafe, and to drink as much as
possible at other people's expense. His education and intelligence would
have disgraced a Paris cabman, but an ironical Providence had invested
him with an air of wisdom which gave to his flattery the value of
profound criticism.

This sycophant greeted us with effusion. Where had we been? Why had the
delightful band been dispersed? Did we know Monsieur Papillard, the
great poet? Before we could reply he approached the chair.

"_Cher maitre_, permit me to present to you m