And now—in the words of the journalists—a “sensational development.” It is announced, breathlessly, hysterically by Madame Martin, that at last she has traced the dozen missing collars, bought by M. Bouzon at “The Joy of the Gentleman,” to the bourgeois fifth-floor _appartement_ of a M. Alexandre Dupont. He has been wearing them all these weeks. And he refuses to surrender them. And he, too, is a “terrible man.” And he has called M. Dubois a “convict,” and M. Bouzon “le dernier des misérables.” And, if they come within his reach, he will hurl both of them into the Seine. “Le comble” [the limit], gasps Montparnasse. All over the neighbourhood goes the statement that M. Alexandre Dupont bought _his_ dozen collars at that other Montparnasse clothing establishment, “The One Hundred Thousand Supreme Shirts.” “The man Alexandre Dupont is as great a scoundrel as the man Aristide Dubois,” cries M. Bouzon to his admiring supporters in the Café du Dôme. “It is impossible to determine which of the two is the more infamous and diabolical, the creature Bouzon or the lunatic Dupont,” shouts M. Dubois, amidst the cheers of his followers in the Café de la Rotonde. “Bouzon and Dubois—I consign them to the Seine and the Morgue,” storms Alexandre Dupont, addressing his newly gathered partisans in the Café du Repos. Out comes that other “general” clothing establishment, “The One Hundred Thousand Supreme Shirts,” with the announcement: “The Only Collar in Paris is the Collar Dupont.” “All three of them are terrible,” affirms Madame Martin to her audience in the stifling _blanchisserie_. “The collars of Bouzon, then the collars of Dubois, and next the collars of Dupont—but where have they all gone to? Where are we? What is going to happen!” cries, emotionally and distractedly, Montparnasse. Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know. But Bouzon, Dubois and Dupont, so obscure three weeks ago, are the Men of the Hour in Montparnasse to-day. And one of the three will, almost indubitably, represent Montparnasse in the Hôtel de Ville after the next Municipal Election,—then be promoted to the Chamber of Deputies—then will eloquently, passionately inform the Palais Bourbon that Incoherency is the Peril of the Present Age. V ON STRIKE 1. WHEN IT WAS DARK IN PARIS Eight o’clock at night, and the electric lights burning brightly, and the band playing gaily, and the customers chatting happily in this large, comfortable café. Although it is the “dead” season, business is brisk. Here and there an elegant Parisienne, eating an ice. In corners, groups of card-players. And next to me, three stout, red-faced, prosperous-looking bourgeois, to whom the proprietor of the café pays particular attention. He hopes they are well. He hopes their ladies and their dear children are well. He hopes their affairs are going well. From their replies, I learn that the three bourgeois are important tradesmen of the quarter.