Scribes and Pharisees: a story of literary London

Front matter

NOVELS BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. Uniform with this Edition. Price 6s. DEVIL'S DICE. WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE. THE EYE OF ISTAR. THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN. Price 3s. 6d. cloth. Illustrated. ZORAIDA. THE GREAT WAR IN ENGLAND. F. V. WHITE & CO., 14 Bedford Street, Strand. • • A STORY OF LITERARY LONDON Tik By WILLIAM LE^ OUEUX Author of 'Whoso findeth a Wife' 'Zoraida' 'The Great War in England' 'Devil's Dice' ' A Madonna of the Music Halls ' &c. London : F. V. White & Co. 14 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. Copyright in the United States of America by William Le Queux, /S9S Amants, guerriers, Durs justiciers, Gros financiers : Paillasses ! Amour, fiert<_., Gloire, t_:quit6 Et loyaut£ : Grimaces . TO MY BROTHER 'VAGABONDS' THOSE MERRY BOHEMIANS WHO WRITE AND PAINT I INSCRIBE THIS STORY OF LITERARY AND JOURNALISTIC LONDON IN THE HOPE THAT THEY WILL FORGIVE ANY CRITICISM AND NOT SEEK TO DISCOVER THE ORIGINALS OF CERTAIN CHARACTERS I HAVE HEREIN ATTEMPTED TO DRAW Viale Regina Margherita, Livorno February 189S CONTENTS CHAPTKB TAGE I. THE SIGN OF THE DEAD EAT 1 II.

BEHIND NOTRE DAME . . . . . . . 12 m. THE TRAIL OF THE UNKNOWN 21 IV. FOSCA 35 V. IN A LONDON SUBURB 19 VI. ONE FACE . 60 VII. THE STUDENT AND THE SUBJECT 74 VIII. GREY DAYS 80 IX. THE MILLSTONE 97 X. A WORLD OF ' TAPE ' AND ' FLIMSY ' . . . . 107 XI. ' TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH ' 122 XH. THE BOOM . . . 130 Xni. BOHEMIA AND BELGRAVIA H5 XIV. ' IN THE SWIM ' 156 XV. THE SECRET OF A DAY . 169 XVI. FRIENDS 183 XVII. THE CUP OF PLEASURE . 190 XVIII. ' THAT WOMAN'S LOVER ' 203 XIX. AMONG THE ' VAGABONDS ' 212 XX. A 'PAR' IN THE PAPERS 225 XXI. THE PHARISEE 234 XXII. THE LILY CITY 247 XXni. LIFE'S FLOTSAM 260 XXIV. A REVELATION 271 XXV. AT THE GREY HOUSE 282 XXVI. THE TRUTH 291 CONCLUSION SCEIBES AND PHARISEES

Chapter I The Sign Of The Dead Rat

' She's a mystery.' ' Well, at any rate, Teddy is infatuated — terribly in fatuated.' ' And he knows absolutely nothing of her — of her right name, of where she lives, or of who she really is. He says he does; but I know better, my dear fellow. I've got my suspicions.' ' Suspicions of what ? ' Bertram Rosmead, the indolent art student, who had thus expressed doubt, smiled mysteriously. He had flung himself upon the frayed and faded couch at the open window of the airy, high-up old room on the Quai Monte bello, and was lying with his hands lazily clasped behind his head and a caporal in his mouth, in an attitude of idle contentment. The rose and orange of the afterglow had faded. The roar of Paris came up from the streets below, and as he gazed dreamily across the placid river where beyond showed against the clear evening sky the twin time-worn towers of Notre Dame, the thin gilt spire of the Hotel de Ville, and the ancient Gothic tower of St. Jacques, he pondered deeply.

The day was over ; the Paris of Pleasure was lighting up, beginning its night of delight. B ' You'd better not express any such doubts in Teddy's hearing. He'd be furious,' observed Jean Potin, his fellow student, who, together with the man they were discussing, shared equally that shabby room, half study, half studio, in which they sat. The place was silent and gloomy in the dusk, its three easels standing in line together, the lay-figure looking ghostly in the half-light, while the human skull perched on the top of the smoke-begrimed cupboard grinned grimly down upon them. Rosmead laughed. He was about twenty-two, slim, dark-haired dark-eyed, with features somewhat aquibne, square jaws denoting considerable determination, a refined, sensitive mouth, and brows well arched — a decidedly clever face, regular, expressive, and beaming with good humour. ' Teddy's an Irishman — all Irishmen are apt to be im petuous,' he said, without removing his cigarette. ' His impetuousness nearly brought him into trouble when he knocked down the gendarme outside the Chat Noir the other night,' the young Frenchman laughed. ' That hirondelle de greve owed Teddy a grudge ever since the night during the July fetes when he kissed a girl on the Boulevard, and she complained of his conduct.

There was a row, I believe, and the O'Donovan squared up to the elegant official, and would have chawed him up if the Marquis, Antoine, and some of the boys had not been present and succeeded in carrying him off by sheer force of numbers.' Rosmead spoke French and used Parisian slang — the slang of the Quartier Latin — in a manner few Englishmen could. ' 'I've noticed he's been a little triste these last few days,' the young Frenchman said, speaking with a strong Breton accent. ' Teddy is not his usual self.' ' The girl, my dear Jean — the girl,' answered the carelessly-dressed Bohemian, with the air of a philosopher. ' Poor old Teddy is in love. He hasn't shouted " Hurrah for County Cork ! " these ten days, and he never goes down to Mother Gery's now. Where's he gone this evening in such a devil of a hurry, I wonder ? ' ' To meet her,' his fellow-student said. ' He meets her at eight every night in the little garden in tbe Rue du Cloitre.' ' At eight,' Rosmead repeated reflectively. ' Then, after all, she may be out of one of the magasins.' ' From the Louvre, or Bon Marche, I've thought.' ' No, I can't believe that,' said the young Englishman. ' From her manner she's evidently a lady.' Jean raised his shoulders to his ears with expressive gesture, but uttered no word.

He was thin-faced, rather tall and slim, of sallow complexion, and a trifle sad looking, with a pair of deep-set, penetrating black eye3. His clothes were shabby, and paint-besmirched, and, like Rosmead, his fingers were stained yellow by the caporals he eternally consumed, while the black silk cravat knotted around his neck did dual duty as collar and tie. But in that gay, careless set to which they belonged a man was never judged by the cut of his coat, the glossi ness of his hat, or the manner in which his cravat was tied. Theirs was a merry life, spells of spasmodic work at home or at Juben's being invariably followed by wild out bursts of pleasure. Bertram Rosmead, Jean Potin, and Teddy O'Donovan formed a trio of students as merry, as reckless, and as impecunious as any in the quaint old Quartier Latin.

Through three whole years they had lived a life of feast one day and fast the next in that bare, ill-furnished sky attic, sharing each other's joys and sorrows, alternately idling and working, smoking their long rank cigars pur chased in the ' Boul. Mich.' at five centimes apiece, and quenching their insatiable thirst with an exceedingly inexpensive wine possessed of a better colour than taste. B Little they knew and less they cared for the worries of Use, existing as they did in Bohemia, their world apart. In those days the old Quartier still existed, dirty, bizarre, and filled with men many of whose names have since become household words throughout Europe ; men now distinguished in the worlds of art, literature, medicine and diplomacy ; men who, fifteen years ago, were glad enough to dine at Mother Gery's for half-a-franc, and even to eat a handful of roasted marrons on a winter's night to keep out the cold and stave off the pangs of hunger.

Those were days of empty stomachs and full brains, of cheerful yesterdays and confident to-morrows, of wild practical joking, of shifts and debts, of good humour, of rollicking merriment and genuine good-fellowship. The man who knew the beloved old Quartier in those well-remembered days, and now revisits it, will sigh to note everywhere a change. If he forsakes the present, leaves the busy Rue de Rivoli, crosses the Pont Neuf, and plunges for a brief hour into the past, he will soon discern that Bohemia no longer exists there. Its old-world charm has passed away, because it has become modernised, and has assumed a sorry air of mock gentility. Let him glance up at the four well-remembered top windows of that dingy-looking house on the Quai Montebello, the grey front of which faces the Seine, and he will actually discover lace curtains there !

Alas ! that the grisette died with Murger and Musset. But in the days when that high-up room was tenanted by these three happy, indolent revellers the Quartier was still Bohemia, and of all those who used to dine so frugally at the little cremerie with the red blinds in the Rue Galande there was not one more popular among his fellows than Bertram Rosmead. As an artist he was sadly wanting in talent. Everybody knew it ; he himself was too painfully aware_of it. But he was a born vagabond, a thorough-going Bohemian, who would lounge into the Grand Cafe in his threadbare clothes, collarless, with his rusty black cravat secured in a big bow, and order his refreshment with the air of a prince ; and even go to the opera and rub shoulders with the daintiest Parisiennes in the same paint-bespattered jacket and with several days' growth of beard upon his chin.

He spoke with all the argot of the seamy side of Paris life, and, held in esteem and respect by his fellow-students, he was per fectly content, caring absolutely nothing for the opinion of the world. To the true Bohemian the Seine separated his own world from that outside, forming a distinct division between the quartier he loved and the quartier he held in contempt. These three led a reckless life. In those idle days the quips of Droz convulsed them, the romances of Sue held them breathless, and the pathos of Murger caused lumps to rise in their throats. In those days time was counted by the dates of remittances from home, and at that period, in their youthful enthusiasm, they all of them believed their works would one day be hung in the Luxembourg for the admiration of the crowds of gaping tourists who daily flock there.

They were indeed as light-hearted, cosmopolitan, and open-hearted a trio as ever trod the Pont Neuf or handled a stick in a student's scrimmage. ' If she's really a lady,' Jean observed, after a long pause, during which, perched on the high painting-stool, he pensively sketched in crayon an imaginary caricature of Teddy kissing his mysterious divinity, ' if she really is a lady,' he repeated with emphasis, holding his head on one side as he contemplated his sketch, ' it's certainly strange that she should have taken up with the O'Donovan. All along he's said he hated women.' ' Yes, it is strange,' acquiesced Rosmead. ' I always thought that he was proof against love-looks.' Then, reflecting upon one or two of his own minor affairs of the heart, he added, with a sigh, ' All of us have our spells of foolishness now and then, I suppose.' ' Ah ! you speak from experience.

Have you seen Fosca lately ? ' ' Fosca ? What do you mean ? ' the young English man asked, raising his eyebrows with well-feigned astonishment. ' Fosca has fascinated you, my dear Ber-rti,' his friend said, with a tantalising laugh. ' Yon can't deny it — come.' Rosmead smiled. 'I suppose it's useless,' he laughed. 'I didn't think you'd notice it. Do any of the other fellows know ? ' ' Everybody knows,' was Jean's prompt reply. ' When a man as popular at Julien's as Bertram Rosmead falls in love, the Quartier very soon knows all about it.' ' But I'm not avec un jaune d'œuf,' Rosmead protested, involuntarily dropping into slang. ' I think it's devilish hard on a fellow to spread such unfounded reports. When I bought a new hat — two years ago now — everybody knew about it within half an hour, and the word went forth that I'd joined the gommeaux.

And with what result? That hat was not on my head an hour before two fellows came along, snatched it off, and pitched it into the Seine ; while a dozen other of the boys stood laughing at me as I watched it bobbing merrily away beneath the bridge. I haven't bought a silk hat since, and I shall never have another. It's too respectable.' ' But what about La Fosca ? ' Jean demanded. ' Did you see her when you were out this morning?' ' No ; but I met the Marquis.' ' And he wanted to borrow, 1 suppose ? ' ' I lent him the usual thirty centimes,' responded the man on the couch, stretching himself and yawning. ' Poor Marquis ! he's always absolutely stony — brouille avec le directeur de la Monnaie,' and he laughed. ' Yes, but with him borrowing has become an involun tary act,' Jean exclaimed quickly. ' A fortnight ago, when my last remittance came, he took me into a corner and confided to me that he hadn't a sou in his pocket, and wanted five francs to buy some nourishment for his ailing wife.

I lent him it — five single francs. Ten minutes later, when we were parting, he took me to have a drink in at Chauvel's, and he actually had the impudent audacity to pay for it with a ten-franc piece ! ' ' Rough on you, old fellow,' Rosmead laughed. ' He's reduced borrowing to a fine art. I believe he's had loans from the fellows sufficient by this time to pay off the mort gage on his chdteau.' ' His chdteau in Spain ? ' observed Jean, smiling, Rosmead made no reply. Giuseppe Farini, the grey bearded old Italian who sat as model for the head of St. Peter, was a well-known figure in Bohemia. Where he lived nobody knew. He was of that type which the lower class Parisian would term a galapidt. He existed chiefly on charity and by loans extracted from artists to whom he had sat, and was inclined to frequent the lowest wine shops whenever the generosity of his friends allowed him to dissipate.

For many years he had lived in the Quartier, and his handsome furrowed face had been perpetuated many and many a time by men who had since made their mark, and whose portraits of him now hung in various galleries in Europe. Like those who employed him, or gave him alms, Giuseppe was a Bohemian, although given to boasting when in his cups. Legend had it that once, long ago, he had staggered into Mother GSry's, and having created a disturbance, was ordered by a man, now a member of the Academy, to leave the place. Where upon the model with the apostolic face struck an attitude, and announced that in his own country he was a marquis, the holder of a title as ancient as Notre Dame itself. From that moment the students bestowed upon him the title of ' the Marquis,' and as such he was ever afterwards known.

His daughter Fosca, too, was a familiar figure, universally admired by the students, for she was a handsome girl with black eyes and features of the true Tuscan type, who was engaged as assistant in the lace department of the Grand Magasins du Louvre, the great building in the Rue de Rivoli, the tricolour on the roof of which Rosmead could plainly see from where he had lazily stretched himself. Jean had spoken the truth — he loved Fosca. In the Quartier, where there were dozens of other men who had endeavoured in vain to win smiles from her, he alone had been able to induce her to take walks with him, to extract from her an acknowledgment of love. They did not meet often, for the hours at the Louvre were long, and the female assistants were not allowed to roam the Paris streets at night, as those of similar establishments in London.

Sometimes he would cross the Pont d'Arcole and enter the gigantic magasin where all Paris shopped, and, making his way among mazes of counters presided over by neatly-dressed girls in black, would pause at that devoted to the sale of Valenciennes, Maltese, Spanish, and Torchon, and under the pretence of making a purchase would make an appointment. But the keen eye of the head-saleswoman was always upon them, therefore on such occasions their conversation was always brief and to the point, and only on Sunday evenings under the trees in the Tuileries Gardens or in the Avenue des Champs- Elysees, could he press her hand and pour forth his declarations of fervent devotion. The Marquis had, how ever, quickly discovered the attachment, and with an instinct of thrift had at once made it a source of income.

Many were the thirty-centime loans he obtained from the easy-going, improvident student, because the latter could not refuse a favour to Fosca's father. Bertram Rosmead was as light in pocket as in heart. The son of a struggling London barrister who had died ten years before, the cost of his education had been de frayed by a wealthy and somewhat eccentric uncle, who had subsequently allowed him to choose a profession, and he had chosen that of artist. The allowance the old man made him in order that he might study at Juben's was not large ; indeed, it only just sufficed to keep body and soul together ; but on completion of his studies he knew that this must cease, therefore, although convinced that he had but little artistic talent, he hesitated to confess the appalling fact to his uncle. When he had first come to Paris he was eager, enthusiastic, and fired with ambition ; but soon, like every other student, the easy, lazy life sapped his energies until he found himself caring nothing whatever about art, preferring to spend the summer days in idleness, reading the cheap romances purchased from the stalls along the quays.

He was no longer ambitious, born Bohemian that he was. So long as he had a franc or two to jingle in his pocket, the society of Jean and Teddy, and Fosca's eyes with their genuine love light shining upon him, he wanted nothing else, and was careless of all the world beside. He glanced from the open window back into the gloomy room. On the three easels were canvases nearly finished, two of them being very mediocre productions, while the third, a head of Bacchus, showed talent of no mean order. The fact was that neither Rosmead nor his companion were brilliant ; the absent Irishman alone possessed genius. Jean, having finished his cigarette and tossed the end out of the window, descended from his perch to obtain another, and as he did so, remarked : ' Teddy is going to bring Mademoiselle up here to night.' ' Teddy going to bring her here ? ' echoed Rosmead incredulously, raising himself upon his elbow and looking towards his fellow-student. ' He said nothing to me about it.' ' He told me in confidence,' the young Frenchman ex plained. ' He said he shouldn't tell you, because he believed you didn't like her.' 'He guessed aright.

I don't like her,' the other answered promptly. ' You seem to entertain some rather absurd prejudice,' Jean observed, standing in the half-light with both hands thrust deep in his trouser-pockets. ' Why ? ' ' I'm afraid Teddy will make a fool of himself over her. He's never loved before, and he's capable of any mad folly.' ' But she's charming, and she speaks English,' observed the young Breton. ' When we met them in the Rue Castiglione the other day I thought her extremely pretty.' 'Yes, pretty, and that's all,' growled Rosmead, with unusual asperity. ' He's becoming a dandy. He brushes his clothes every day now, and rubs his hands with pumice stone to get the colours out of them. And all through her.' ' You've taken a violent dislike to her.' ' Yes, I have,' Bertram Rosmead admitted. ' Teddy's one of us, and I'm hanged if I'll stand by and see him im posed upon by a worthless, good-for-nothing hussy who won't even give her name or address — an adventuress, or a woman who frequents the Rat Mort for aught we know.' 'But you've just expressed the opinion that she's a lady,' Potin protested. ' And don't ladies go there ?

Don't some of the most wealthy and notable women in Paris put on their maids' dresses and go there to dine at those two long tables off plates ornamented by dead rats? Have not you and I witnessed them with our own eyes ? ' The Breton nodded. ' And you believe that of her ? ' he asked, after a moment's pause. ' Yes,' Rosmead answered, ' I do.' Potin looked at him for a few seconds mysteriously. ' A modern Sappho — a belle-petite ? ' he observed inquiringly. ' Exactly.' ' Then if such is really the case,' Potin said, ' I can well understand your indignation that your compatriot should have fallen in love with her. Such women are worse than the lowest daughter of the pavement.' And both smoked on in silence, while the great bell of Notre Dame slowly boomed forth the hour. Then, as Potin went out to get his dinner at Mother Gery's, Ros mead, gay and light-hearted as always, sighed, raised himself into a sitting posture, and beating time with his cigarettestained finger, commenced to sing in a fair tenor voice the waltz refrain of that old song so popular in the Quartier : Mimi, Musette, Ninon, Suzette, Las 1 qui n'implore Votre retour, Comme une aurore D'amour ! Car vous aviez la fantaisie Qui manque k la stupide fin De ce siecle de bourgeoisie ; Car vous 6tiez la poesie Des pays boheme et latin.

Chapter II Behind Notre Dame

While Rosmead and the young Breton were thus discussing Teddy O'Donovan's love affair, the man whose infatuation had awakened such severe criticism was loung ing in Father Gros's bttle wine-shop in the Rue St. Severin, a low-ceilinged, smoke-begrimed place much fre quented by students, its speciality being the wine at four sous. At one of the little tables sat the big, round-faced, fair haired, merry Irishman known to all in the Quartier as 'The Bouchon,' the French equivalent for Cork. The nicknames in Bohemia were frequently derived from the native town of the student, and in this instance, as Teddy was eternally referring to the city in the south of Ireland whence he hailed, some wit or other at once translated it into French, and ever afterwards he bore the appellation. As he sat with his worn-out, baggy-kneed trousers turned up over cracked boots, a coat which had once been dark blue, but was now rapidly assuming a shade of stone grey, a soft, round felt hat stuck on the back of his head, a handkerchief knotted around his throat, and a long, thin, and terribly rank cigar between his teeth, he looked the very picture of laziness and carelessness.

At Juben's he had already been singled out as a coming man. That he could paint well, and was an adept at foreshortening the figure, was acknowledged everywhere, and even Glenat, the great critic of the Figaro, who had seen some of his work, had bestowed upon it a word of commendation. Praise from Glenat was praise indeed, as every artist in Paris knows. Many men after this would have given themselves airs ; but not so with Teddy. He was essentially an idler, essentially a merry, good-hearted, open-handed Bohemian. His friends were wealthy; he belonged to one of the county families in Ireland, and his father had represented Galway in the House for ten years. He, however, preferred life in the Quartier to that in an English cavalry regiment, for which he had originally been intended, and having taken up art as a profession, no one was more sur prised than himself at his own success.

Wild and reck less, he was regarded as a leader in any pranks which the students played upon the representatives of law and order, for his buriy form and great physical stieng^h placed him far above his puny fellow-students, and in p. street scrim mage his ' Hurrah for County Cork ! ' was a_* a well-known war-cry. Many times he had been within an ace of arrest. Of the hundred droll stories told of his resourcefulness, one was how one night, after cbmbing a street-lamp and lighting his long Virginia, first breaking the glass, he slipped down to the pavement, and there found a policeman awaiting him. In an instant he rushed away, and was hotly pur sued. His long legs, however, soon outdistanced his pursuer, when suddenly he dashed into a doorway, entered the concierge's little den, flung aside his hat, and assuming the peaked and greasy headgear of the absent porter, sank into a chair.

When the policeman entered he was poring over the Soir in the dimly-lit little room. ' Did you see a student enter a moment ago ? ' demanded the breathless policeman. ' Yes,' answered the O'Donovan gruffly, 'Pierre Manuel, fourth floor, just gone up.' The officer dashed upstairs two steps at a time, while Teddy, picking up his hat, resumed it, and calmly walked home. Opposite him, at the little table that evening in Father Gros's, sat the old grey-bearded, furrowed-faced Italian known as the Marquis. The latter had extracted the usual loan of thirty centimes, and was now consuming a momi nette at the lender's expense. His thin, bony hands, every line of which all students at Julien's knew, so often had they sketched them, shook nervously as he deftly manu factured a fresh cigarette from the screw of tobacco he had taken from his pocket, and his face had relaxed into a smile owing to some observation of the witty Irishman.

His hair and beard remained untrimmed, for professional purposes ; his deep-sunken eyes had a wonderful pious expression, even when he was too intoxicated to stagger to his unknown home ; he smelt eternally of garbc, and his clothes were so antique and greasy as to be almost too unwholesome even for Bohemia. And this was the father of the pretty Fosca, the sbm waisted little shop assistant over in the Rue de Rivoli, whose dainty figure and smiling face were so familiar to every student in the Quartier. His applications for loans of thirty centimes had appa rently been successful that day, for as he sat there he was in a maudlin, half-intoxicated condition. ' I tell you there's no art in Paris nowadays,' he was saying emphatically to Teddy, bending forward unevenly after lighting his cigarette. ' Look at all the duffers in this year's Salon — Lapaine, Ondet, Trombert, Lepelletier, Laurens, and all that crowd.

Not one of them can paint a good picture. All this impressionist craze is ruining art ; yet the critics ar© fostering it, well knowing that in five years the vogue will have gone by.' There was a good deal of truth in the old Italian's words, and Teddy inclined his head in acquiescence. ' Look at Ondet's " Queen of the Night," about which there's such a confounded fuss ! The thing's perfectly absurd, both in colouring and treatment. The head's out of drawing,' the old man continued. ' No, no,' protested Teddy, ' a bad picture certainly, but not quite so bad as all that, Marquis. They've bought it for the Luxembourg, at any rate, and Ondet has arrived.' ' I know he has,' growled the Italian. ' And only a year ago Glenat, when he saw a head he did from my model, told him to go back to Blois and grow roses — his father's a florist who supplies the Madeleine.' ' He'll paint them now, instead, and find it more profit able than raking manure,' Teddy laughed. ' Yes, yes,' said the Marquis impatiently, ' but alas ! how art is degenerating nowadays !

Dieu ! half the men in this year's Salon wouldn't have been allowed to enter any of the schools fifteen or twenty years ago. These modern men can design advertisement posters, or draw in black and white for the so-called comic journals, but it's a sheer waste of good material to allow them to spoil canvases. Three-quarters of the men at present at Julien's would earn more at selling tape than in attempting to produce the miserable sketches they call pictures. For example, there's your friend and countryman Rosmead. He'll never become an artist ; he ' 'He's well aware of that,' Teddy snapped, quickly interrupting. The Marquis was on dangerous ground, for to utter a word detrimental to either of his two friends was, to the O'Donovan, like the holding up of a red rag to a bull. His quick Irish blood rose in a moment. ' Then why the devil doesn't he leave Paris ? ' ' Because he has an attraction here in the person of your daughter Fosca,' answered Teddy mischievously, well knowing that any mention of the attachment dis pleased him.

The Marquis had set his mind upon his daughter marrying a man of means, and not a wild, penniless student. ' Pere la Tuile ! ' Farini exclaimed, with an angry gesture, using thieves' argot. ' The girl's an idiot. I've told her so over and over again. With her face she can marry a man who can afford to keep her properly. She's not the kind of wife for Rosmead.' ' What have you to say against him ? ' inquired Teddy, eyeing the Marquis with severity. ' He's in a chronic state of hard-up ; but isn't that the state of all of us ? Surely things have not so degenerated that here, in the Quartier, poverty is to be flung into a man's face ? If so, then the first man to suffer is yourself, my dear Marquis.' The Italian, thus snubbed, mumbled some vague, indistinct explanation, but his shifty eyes told the young Irishman that his companion was scarcely aware of what he was saying, therefore, pleading an urgent appointment, he rose, and having paid the rough-headed, unkempt waiter, strolled airily out, shouting a merry farewell to his noisy fellow-students seated in little groups around. ' The poor old threepenny Marquis is becoming an impossible person,' Teddy exclaimed aloud in his rich Irish brogue, as he crossed the Place St. Michel towards the bridge. ' The idea of criticising Bertie's work !