At Paris, where I was to stay two days, my first visit was to my colleagues at the Embassy. I asked who was in Paris. “Oh!” said they, “—— is staying here,” and they gave me the address of a wretched little _hôtel borgne_ in a side street off the Boulevard. I went off to see him; it was the shabbiest house even in that shabbiest offshoot of a brilliant neighbourhood—one of those violent contrasts which are the essence of Paris. I rang at the bell and was looked over from head to foot; obviously a suspicious character. However, I sent up my card, was admitted, and joyously welcomed by my friend, who was lying in bed. It was three o’clock in the afternoon—half an hour later than my Lord Tomnoddy’s time for getting up. I asked the reason. His clothes were all in pawn! I wanted to wash my hands and asked for a towel. “I’m so sorry! I can’t lend you one; the people of the house won’t let me have any linen for fear of my pawning it, but there is a dirty flannel shirt in the corner—you can dry your hands on that!” I left him, carrying off his pawn-tickets, and went off to see whether I could make up a purse among some of our friends. In an hour I was back with his garments liberated and a small sum of money to go on with—twenty pounds, I remember. He was soon dressed, as spick and span a dandy as you could meet in Bond Street, or on the Boulevard, handsome as a picture and as gay as if he had not a care in the world. We went out to see another friend (not in difficulties) and I wanted to turn down the Rue Laffitte. Impossible!—there was a bootmaker there who would pounce upon him and make a scandal. So it was with several streets and several trades. At last we reached the flower-market outside the Madeleine. That was worst of all, for there was “an infernal old woman there whose fortune he had made by inventing a button-hole, and she would scratch his eyes out if he did not settle her wicked bill.” We parted in the Champs Elysées. That night poor Greville Sartoris and I were going to see Pasca, the actress who was all the rage at the moment, and we dined first at the Café Anglais. When we got there whom should we see but my impecunious friend, beautifully got up, with a rosebud in his buttonhole, finishing a delicate little dinner with a _salade d’ananas_ and a pint of Perrier Jouet. When Georges, the waiter, came up with his bill, he said, “Tenez, Georges, il y a longtemps que je ne vous ai rien donné,” and gave him five napoleons, telling him to keep the change. I could not help exclaiming at this. “Ah! my dear fellow,” said he, “you don’t begin to know how to live on nothing at all. Those five napoleons will enable me to lunch and dine here for a month on credit!” And with that he opened his crush hat and went off to dazzle somebody else besides Georges and us.