And once, while exploring this neighbourhood, I perceived Mère Casimir seated next to Bibi la Purée behind one of those windows; with a bottle of wine in front of them. And I entered and approached them, apologising for my intrusion. Bibi was the host: Bibi, “the original with an amazing past,” who in days gone by had been Verlaine’s valet and friend: and who—after the death of the “Master”—became obsessed with an unholy passion for umbrellas; anyone’s umbrellas—all umbrellas—new, middle-aged, decrepit. Bibi, tall and gaunt, with sunken cheeks, lurid green eyes, an eternal, wonderful grin, and—— But Bibi cannot be described in passing. Bibi deserves a chapter to himself, and Bibi has had that chapter elsewhere.[1] Well, Bibi was the host, and Mère Casimir his guest. Several nights a week they met in this manner. There in the grimy wine-shop they exchanged reminiscences: Bibi, of Verlaine; Mère Casimir, of M. le Marquis and other _roués_ under the Empire. There they drank sour red wine and took pinches of snuff: Bibi provided the wine, Mère Casimir the snuff. There they chanted Béranger ditties: Bibi huskily, Mère Casimir in her feeble, cracked voice. There they were happy and at peace: an extraordinary couple. At intervals rough-looking men slouched in and out. Whispering went on in corners. But no one heeded Bibi and Mère Casimir, and they themselves paid no attention to the dubious drinkers in the place. “He is gay, isn’t he, my Bibi?” the old woman would inquire. “She is still young, isn’t she, la Mère Casimir?” the old fellow demanded. Then Mère Casimir laughed in her feeble, cracked voice, and rubbed her withered old hands, and nodded her bowed white head, and piped the first line of the sad refrain: “Il était une fois.” [1] _Paris of the Parisians._ 2. GLOOM ON THE RIVE GAUCHE