On a certain evening, then, in April 1795, Mathieu entered the _Faisan_ a little earlier than usual. In his hand was a fresh, untumbled manuscript. Several citizens incontinently rose, paid their scores, and went out. The patron cast an agonised look at their retreating backs, and one full of venom at Mathieu's. The poet, a lanky personage, sat down, gave the smallest possible order for refreshments, and, after scandalously few preliminaries and a marked absence of any kind of encouragement, unrolled his manuscript. "I have here, fellow-citizens, some verses which I should like to submit to your valued judgment." Such was Mathieu's formula to-night. "These verses deal with the present situation of the arms of our beloved country, being, in fact, an 'Ode on the Peace recently concluded between the glorious Republic and Prussia.'" All present resigned themselves, except one man who ostentatiously buried himself in a news-sheet. Mathieu, than whom was no happier mortal at that moment between the English Channel and the Pyrenees, began joyfully to roll forth his periods and his execrable rhymes. And, weedy though he was of aspect, his own outpourings soon began increasingly to inflate his not inconsiderable voice, so that presently the room rang with his bellowings, and the table before him jumped as he pounded it. Among all his unwilling listeners he had none a tenth part as interested as a small, tired-looking boy who sat, a spoon in his hand, at a table some distance away. With him was a neat man of forty who, in the midst of his own repast, attended to his small companion's wants. Since the opening of Mathieu's performance the child had more or less neglected his meal to listen with an attention distinctly strained, his eyes anxiously fixed on the orator. Nor did Mathieu fail, after a while, to observe the flattering behaviour of his youngest auditor, and at last broke off and apostrophised him, trusting, he said, that his young friend would profit by these lessons, and remember them in years to come. The young friend, on whom all eyes were immediately turned, shrank back, looking terrified. But Mathieu lost no time in continuing his reading. He was approaching a favourite passage, a purple patch directed against "crowned tyrants," "perfidious Albion," and "those vipers, the émigrés," and so he unleashed fully the voice which was so much at variance with his physique. A man yawned, another banged approval--and the small boy, overcome by emotion or fatigue, hid his face in his hands and burst into tears. His companion tried to quiet him, but the child drew away from him, and the man, evidently annoyed, and muttering, "He is overtired; excuse him, my friends!" picked him up, and carried him out of the room. Mathieu was not unaccustomed to exits during his performances, but this retreat was rather flattering than otherwise, since it could only be attributed to his power of moving the heart. He paused a moment, smirked, and proceeded.