Next day I left Orléans. I gave up the notion of writing the life of Joan of Arc, as I found that there was absolutely no new material to be gleaned on her history--in fact, she had been thrashed out. Years passed, and I had almost forgotten about Jean Bouchon, when, the other day, I was in Orléans once more, on my way south, and at once the whole story recurred to me. I went that evening to the same café. It had been smartened up since I was there before. There was more plate glass, more gilding; electric light had been introduced, there were more mirrors, and there were also ornaments that had not been in the café before. I called for café-cognac and looked at a journal, but turned my eyes on one side occasionally, on the look-out for Jean Bouchon. But he did not put in an appearance. I waited for a quarter of an hour in expectation, but saw no sign of him. Presently I summoned a waiter, and when he came up I inquired: "But where is Jean Bouchon?" "Monsieur asks after Jean Bouchon?" The man looked surprised. "Yes, I have seen him here previously. Where is he at present?" "Monsieur has seen Jean Bouchon? Monsieur perhaps knew him. He died in 1869." "I know that he died in 1869, but I made his acquaintance in 1874. I saw him then thrice, and he accepted some small gratuities of me." "Monsieur tipped Jean Bouchon?" "Yes, and Jean Bouchon accepted my tips." "_Tiens_, and Jean Bouchon died five years before." "Yes, and what I want to know is how you have rid yourselves of Jean Bouchon, for that you have cleared the place of him is evident, or he would have been pestering me this evening." The man looked disconcerted and irresolute. "Hold," said I; "is Alphonse here?" "No, monsieur, Alphonse has left two or three years ago. And monsieur saw Jean Bouchon in 1874. I was not then here. I have been here only six years." "But you can in all probability inform me of the manner of getting quit of Jean." "Monsieur! I am very busy this evening, there are so many gentlemen come in." "I will give you five francs if you will tell me all--all--succinctly about Jean Bouchon." "Will monsieur be so good as to come here to-morrow during the morning? and then I place myself at the disposition of monsieur." "I shall be here at eleven o'clock." At the appointed time I was at the café. If there is an institution that looks ragged and dejected and dissipated, it is a café in the morning, when the chairs are turned upside-down, the waiters are in aprons and shirt-sleeves, and a smell of stale tobacco lurks about the air, mixed with various other unpleasant odours. The waiter I had spoken to on the previous evening was looking out for me. I made him seat himself at a table with me. No one else was in the saloon except another _garçon_, who was dusting with a long feather-brush.