Still, it retains many of its ancient characteristics and much of the old-time quaintness peculiar to itself and setting it wholly apart, and it is yet the rendezvous of littérateurs and artists, who, if not so famous as the great men in whose seats they sit, play a considerable rôle in the life of modern Paris. The front of the _café_ is a neat little terrace off the street, screened by a fanciful net-work of vines and shrubbery that spring from green painted boxes and that conceal cosey little tables and corners placed behind them. Instead of the usual showy plate-windows, one still finds the quaint old window-panes, very small carreaux, kept highly polished by the tireless garçon apprentice. Tacked to the white pillars are numerous copies of _Le Procope_, a weekly journal published by Théo, the proprietor of the _café_. Its contributors are the authors, journalists, and poets who frequent the _café_, and it publishes a number of portraits besides, and some spirited drawings. It is devoted in part to the history of the _café_ and of the celebrities who have made it famous, and publishes portraits of them, from Voltaire to Paul Verlaine. This same journal was published here over two hundred years ago, in 1689, and it was the means then by which the patrons of the establishment kept in closer touch with their contemporaries and the spirit of the time. Théo is proprietor and business manager, as well as editor. [Illustration: 0215] The following two poems will give an idea of the grace of the matter contained in Le Procope: À UNE ESPAGNOLE Au loin, quand, l'oil rêveur et d'ennuis l'âme pleine, Je suivrai sur les flots le vol des alcyons Chaque soir surgira dans les derniers rayons Le profil triste et doux d'Ida, de ma sirène. La figure et de lys et d'iris transparente, Ressortira plus blanche en l'ombre des cheveux Profonds comme un mystère et troublants et mes yeux Boiront dans l'Idéal sa caresse enivrante. Et je rechercherai l'énigme du sourire Railleur ou de pitié qui luisait dans ses yeux En des paillettes d'or sous ses beaux cils ombreux.... Et je retomberai dans la tristesse... et dire Qu'un seul mot me rendrait et la vie et l'espoir: Belle, mon rendez-vous n'est-il point pour ce soir? L Birr. PETITE CHANSON DÉSOLÉE Je suis seul dans la grande ville Où nul n'a fêté mon retour, Cour vide, et cerveau qui vacille, Sans projet, sans but, sans amour Je suis seul dans la grande ville. Le dos voûté, les bras ballants, Je marche au hasard dans la foule A longs pas lourds et nonchalants,