Bastien was one of the most lovable men I ever met, bright, smiling, with a certain undercurrent of sadness—the mark of tuberculosis was upon him then. I remember one day attempting to tell him the meaning of an American negro song he had learned from one of the boys, but he refused to listen, not wishing to be disillusioned. “No, no, Simmons, I do not wish to have it explained. I know what it says. It is a pathetic song of a lover mourning for one he has lost.” And he rendered it in a voice that would have brought tears to the eyes of the average audience. “Ze lobstere in ze lobstere pot Ze bluefish in ze panne; Zey suffere, oh, zey suffere not; What I suffere for my Marie Anne.” Poor Bastien! He was gone the next year. It is almost impossible to speak of Bastien without mentioning that young woman, made famous by the remark of Gladstone that she had written the best book of the year, the woman who meant so much in his life—Marie Bashkirtsev. Fresh from the hands of her maid, she was a fascinating blond “vamp,” but in about twenty minutes the charms began to go. Her hair became unruly, buttons refused to do their duty, and slipper strings burst. She had beautiful feet and was inclined to wear her shoes too small. I once sent her a message saying that I would give her a sketch for one of her slippers. She replied: “I know the value of a new pair of slippers, but I do not know the value of one of your pictures.” On the apartment mantelpiece of Bojidar Karageorgivitch was a semicircle of shoes, a slipper in the center, and two bell jars covering riding boots at either end—all belonging to his cousin Marie. Borjidar was a charming person; the son of a king, his mother a Russian princess and second in line for the Serbian throne. His brother Nicolas was a weakling, and Peter, the king, was no good. Slight, pointed beard, and aquiline nose, he looked more the fashionable Frenchman than anything else. Like Pierre Loti, he was smitten with the divine Sarah, who visited him at Concarneau and left her painting materials behind. Borjidar always seemed to be surrounded with a halo of romance. One day we were sitting out on the pavement and some one mentioned thumb-nails. It is said that the larger the white moons, the greater the aristocrat. This royal prince had no moon at all, thus indicating no ancestry; but if the sign is true, it is not strange, since his grandfather had been an ignorant butcher who had jumped the throne. Through his mother he had a delightful touch. Years later I met Bojidar in Paris, and what do you suppose he was doing? Such a brave, fine thing! He was selling jewelry, which he designed himself, to the English snob and really making good at it. Many people like to buy from the son of a king.