But all the students were not old. Most of them were quite young, and some very unsophisticated. I remember a blond fellow, green, and straight from the country, who had received a hundred francs a month from the citizens of his home town to complete his art education. One day he came running into the studio, breathless, stammering out a most amazing story. He had been staring in a jeweler’s window when a beautiful woman, “an angel,” approached him, saying: “Who art thou?” “Your servant.” She took him by the arm to her barouche, and he drove with her to a magnificent house on the Champs Élysées. There servants took charge of him and arrayed him in fine clothing. The details of the next three days were very vague, but he lived in a dream. One of the things he did was to drive with her into the country at 4 A.M. to drink milk fresh from the cows. It was another story of Diana and Endymion, but all he could say was: “She was a goddess.” We were inclined to disbelieve his tale until one evening we took him to the Variétés, whose back door opened into the same _galerie_ as Julian’s. There, on the stage, he discovered his “goddess.” She was Judic, a famous actress of the day, well known for her curious amours! Most of us students were poor. I had fifty dollars a month allowance, but I roomed with a fellow who had only twenty for everything—and he made it do. We lived in the rue de Douai in Montmartre. The room, six flights up, with a trapdoor for a window, was furnished with two iron cots and very little else. I remember we used champagne bottles for water ewers. For all this we paid thirty francs a month. No heat, of course, and in winter the cold was unspeakable. One night I got an idea, and, taking my blanket, started across the icy red-tiled floor to get into my roommate’s bunk. In the middle of the room I ran into something. It was he coming to sleep with me! We laughed and went out and bought a roast chicken and a bottle of wine. It did not take much to start a party in those days. We could not afford the theater, but would go now and then to sit on the boulevards over our beer. The wicked thing was to go to the Café Américain and drink with the girls. Here one night I saw an amusing thing. A little fellow with varnished boots, loud clothes, and a gay tie, showing every outward vulgarity that some Americans can show, was sitting on the balcony with two large, fat women. Suddenly, a row started below—bad words and then loud oaths in English—and a blow. The French do not do this; they slap the face, but do not use the fist. “_Un coup de poing Anglais!_” We looked down. Five or six Frenchmen were upon two Americans; and then one yelled: “Any Americans here?” The little fellow got up. He was terribly drunk, but, stepping on his chair, he climbed upon the railing of the balcony, balanced himself a moment unsteadily, and then leaped wildly into the crowd, shouting: “I don’t amount to much, but here goes!”