y friends Monsieur
Berzelius Paragot and Monsieur Asticot."

"_Enchante, Messieurs_," said the great poet urbanely.

We likewise avowed our enchantment, and Paragot swore beneath his
breath. The waiter--no longer Hercule, who had been dismissed for petty
thievery some time before--but a new waiter who did not know
Paragot--set us chairs at the end of the table far away from the great
man. We ordered drinks. Paragot emptied his glass in an absent-minded
manner, still under the shock of his downfall. But a few short months
ago he had ruled in this place as king. Now he was patronizingly
presented to the snub-nosed, idiot usurper by Felicien Garbure. _His_
friend, Berzelius Paragot! _Nom de Dieu!_ And he was assigned a humble
place below the salt. Verily the world was upside down.

"Give me another _grog_," said Paragot, "a double one."

The poet read another poem. It was something about topazes and serpents
and the twilight and the pink palms of a negress. More I could not
gather. The company hailed it as another masterpiece. Felicien Garbure
called it a supreme effort of genius. A young man beside Paragot vaunted
its witchery of suggestion.

"It is absolute nonsense," cried my master.

"But it is symbolism, Monsieur," replied the young man in a tone of
indulgent pity.

"What does it mean?"

The young man--he was very kind--smiled and shrugged his shoulders
politely.

"What in common speech is the meaning of one of Bach's fugues or Claude
Monet's effects of sunlight? One cannot say. They appeal direct to the
soul. So does a subtle harmony of words, using words as notes of music,
or pigments, what you will, arranged by the magic of a master. These
things are transcendental, Monsieur."

"_Saperlipopette!_" breathed Paragot. "My little Asticot," he whispered
to me, "have I really come to this, to sit at the feet of an acting
pro-sub-vice-deputy infant Gamaliel and be taught the elements of
symbolic poetry?"

"But Master," said I, somewhat captivated by the balderdash, "there is,
after all, colour in words. Don't you remember how delighted you were
with the name of a little town we passed through on our way to
Orleans--Romorantin? You were haunted by it and said it was like the
purple note of an organ."

"Which shews you my son that I was aware of the jargon of symbolism
before these goslings were hatched," he replied.

He drained his tumbler, called the waiter and paid the reckoning.

"Let us go to Pere Lo