As a rule, however, he has little to say. Of course, the Boul’ Mich’ has been dull. Tourists from “sinister” Germany and from _la vieille Angleterre_ have “looked” for students and amusements—naturally in vain. Mademoiselle Mimi owes nine francs for refreshments. And Mademoiselle Musette two francs eighty centimes for a cab fare. That is all. But when the students “ushered” in the present autumn season, François the waiter had important, solemn news to impart. And it was with sincere sorrow that they learnt that death, in their absence, had claimed the queer little old woman who carried a match-tray in her trembling, bony hands; who performed feeble, vague dances; who piped old-time airs, and related old-time anecdotes; and who had lived amongst Mürger’s sons, ever since they could remember, under the name of Mère Casimir.... No city but Paris could have produced the little old woman: and no other community would have put up with her. Were there a Mère Casimir in London, she would be living in a work-house, strictly superintended, constantly reprimanded, and constantly, too, she would appear in the dock of the police court, and the magistrate would say: “I don’t know what to do with you. You are perfectly incorrigible.” Then this headline amidst the evening newspaper police reports: “Her Seventy-Seventh Appearance. Magistrate Doesn’t Know What To Do With Her. But She Gets One Month All the Same.” In Paris, however, Mère Casimir was free. A shabby old creature, bent over her tray of matches, no taller than your walking-stick. Like her amazing friend, Bibi la Purée, she rarely strayed from the Latin Quarter. Just as he spoke of himself as “Bibi,” so she invariably referred to herself as “la Mère Casimir.” But whereas “Bibi” had ever led a vagabond life, Mère Casimir had known luxurious times, triumphant times: times when worldlings ogled and worshipped her, as she posed on the stage of the Opera and drove out in semi-state to the Bois. And she laughed in a feeble, cracked voice, when she described those brilliant days; and rubbed her withered, trembling old hands; and nodded and nodded her bowed, white head; and piped the first line of that haunting, melancholy refrain: “Il était une fois.” Il était une fois. Once upon a time! But the descent from luxury to poverty had neither saddened nor hardened Mère Casimir. Deeply attached to the students and to Mesdemoiselles Musette and Mimi, she professed a greater affection for them than ever she had borne M. le Marquis or Monseigneur le Duc. “Des idiots,” she said of the latter. “Des cœurs—real hearts,” was her favourite way of describing the kindly Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.