M. Théo de Bellefond is the full name of the proprietor, but he is commonly known as M. Théo. He is a jolly little man, with an ambitious round stomach, a benevolent face covered with a Vandyke beard, and a shining bald head. A large flowing black cravat, tied into an artistic négligé bow, hides his shirt. M. Théo came into possession of the Procope in 1893, a fact duly recorded on a door panel, along with the names of over a score of the celebrities who have made the Procope their place of rest, refection, and social enjoyment. M. Procope was a journalist in his day, but now the ambition that moves him is to restore the ancient glory of the Procope; to make it again the centre of French brains and power in letters, art, and politics. To this end he exerts all his journalistic tact, a fact clearly shown by the able manner in which he conducts his journal, _Le Procope_. He has worked out the history of the _café_, and has at the ends of his fingers the life- stories of its famous patrons. The Café Procope was founded in 1689 by François Procope, where it now stands. Opposite was the Comédie Française, which also was opened that year. The _café_ soon became the rendezvous of all who aspired to greatness in art, letters, philosophy, and politics. It was here that Voltaire, in his eighty-second year, while attending the rehearsals of his play, "Irène," descended from his chaise-à-porteur at the door of the Café Procope, and drank the coffee which the _café_ had made fashionable. It was here also that he became reconciled to Piron, after an estrangement of more than twenty years. Ste.-Foix made trouble here one day about a cup of chocolate. A duel with the proprietor of the _café_ was the immediate result, and after it Ste.-Foix, badly wounded, exclaimed, "Nevertheless, monsieur, your sword-thrust does not prevent my saying that a very sickly déjeuner is une tasse de chocolat!" Jean-Jacques Rousseau, after the successful representation of "Le Devin de Village," was carried in triumph to the Procope by Condorcet, who, with Jean-Jacques on his shoulders, made a tour of the crowded _café_, yelling, "Vive la Musique Française!" Diderot was fond of sitting in a corner and manufacturing paradoxes and materialistic dissertations to provoke the lieutenant of police, who would note everything he said and report it to the chief of police. The lieutenant, ambitious though stupid, one night told his chief that Diderot had said one never saw souls; to which the chief returned, "M. Diderot se trompe. L'âme est un esprit, et M. Diderot est plein d'esprit."