We returned to the dance-hall, for it was now closing-up time, and in order to feel a touch of kinship with America, drank a gin fizz at the American bar, though it seemed to be a novelty to Mr. Thompkins. The streets were alive with the revellers who had been turned out by the closing of the _café_s, dancehalls, and theatres, and the cries of cabbies rose above the din of laughter and chatter among the crowds. But the night was not yet quite finished. Said Bishop,--"We shall now have coffee at the Red Ass." That was below the Place Pigalle, quite a walk down to the Rue de Maubeuge, through that suddenly quiet centre of artists' studios and dignified residences. At last we reached L'Âne Rouage,--the Red Ass. It has a small and unassuming front, except that the window-panes are profusely decorated with painted flowers and figures, and a red ass peers down over the narrow door. L'Âne Rouge has no special distinction, save its artistic interior and the fanciful sketches on its walls. It is furnished with heavy dark tables and chairs, and iron grilled into beautiful scrolls and chandeliers,--like the famous Chat Noir, near by. In fact, L'Âne Rouge resembles an old curiosity shop more than anything else, for it is filled with all imaginable kinds of antiques, blackened by age and smoke, and in perfect harmony. It, too, has its particular clientèle of Bohemians, who come to puff their long pipes that hang in racks, and recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and failures, occasionally breaking into song. For this they bring forth their mandolins and guitars, and sing sentimental ditties of their own composition. There is a charming air of chez soi at the Red Ass; a spirit of good-fellowship pervades it; and then, the _café_ is small, cosey, and comfortable, as well as artistic. [Illustration: 0318] It was in a lively commotion when we crossed the threshold, the place being filled with littérateurs of the quarter. A celebration was in progress,--one of their number had just succeeded in finding a publisher for two volumes of his poetry. It was a notable event, and the lucky Bohemian, flushed with money, had settled his debts and was now treating his friends. Although we were strangers to him, he cordially invited us to share the hospitality of the occasion, and there was great applause when Bishop presented him with a Brevas cigar. "_Bravo, les Anglais! Ce sont des bons types, ceux-là!_" and then they sang in chorus, a happy, careless, jolly crowd. There was a small, thin young sketch artist making crayon portraits of the successful poet and selling them to the poet's friends for fifty centimes apiece,--with the poet's autograph, too. In response to a call for une chanson Anglaise, Bishop sang "Down on the Farm" as he had never sung it before, his shining top-hat pushed back upon his curly hair, his jovial face beaming. At its conclusion he proposed a toast to the successful poet, and it was drunk standing and with a mighty shout.