There was a _chansonnette_ of his, the opening words of which ran somewhat as follows:-- “Oh, beautiful apple-tree! Heavy with flowers As my heart with love! As a little wind serveth To scatter thy blossom, So a young lover only Is needed to ravish The heart from my bosom.” This might be typical of all. We convinced ourselves that we caught in them echoes of a once familiar innocence, and we wept over our lost Eden. Truly the indulging of introspection is the opportunity of the imagination. To many brave souls Gardel’s peasant ballads were the requiem-- “Passez, la Dormette, Passez par chez nous!”-- and so comes the rascal Cabochon, our jailer, with his lowering _huissiers_, and the ‘Evening Gazette’ in his hand. “So-and-so, and So-and-so, and So-and-so, to the Conciergerie.” Then, if the runner had been singing, would succeed some little emotions of parting--moist wistful eyes, and the echo of sobs going down the corridor. Yet, more often, Cabochon would interrupt a romp, to which the condemned would supplement a jocund exit. “_Adieu, messieurs! adieu! adieu!_ We cannot keep our countenances longer. We kneel to Sanson, who shall shrive us--Sanson, the Abbé, the exquisite, in whose presence we all lose our heads!” And so the wild hair and feverish eyes vanish. But it is of Gardel and the Marquise I speak. While many went and many took their places, these two survived for a time. To the new, as to the old, the rogue was unflagging in his attentions. His every respite inspired him with fresh audacity; from each condemned he seemed to take a certain toll of animation. Presently Madame and her emancipated servant, with Clélie and I, would make a nightly habit of it to join forces in a bout of “Quadrille.” We appropriated an upper corner of the long table, and (for the oil lamps on the walls were dismally inadequate) we had our four wax candles all regular--but in burgundy bottles for sconces. A fifth bottle, with no candle, but charged with the ruddier light that illuminates the heart, was a usual accompaniment. We chattered famously, and on many subjects. Hope a little rallied, maybe, as each night brought Cabochon with a list innocent of our names. Also we had our eccentricities, that grew dignified by custom. If, in the game, “_Roi rendu_” was called, we paid, not with a fish, but with a hair plucked from the head. It made Clélie cry; but not all from loyalty. So, if the King of Hearts triumphed, its owner drank “_rubis sur l’ongle_,” emptying his glass and tapping the edge of it three times on his left thumb-nail. Now, I am to tell you of the black evening that at the last broke up our coterie--of the frantic _abandon_ of the scene, and the tragedy of farce with which it closed. On that afternoon Gardel sparkled beyond his wont. He made the air electric with animation. The company was vociferous for a romp, but at present we four sat idly talkative over the disused cards.