"Sixty francs, twenty-five," said Madame. "_Ca y est!_" As she said it, the door of the Deux Colombes opened and another patron, at once evidently a more welcome patron, presented himself. He was a plump little man with hands that were thinly at contrast with the rest of him. He was fairly well dressed, but far better fed, and so contented with his lot as to have no eye for the evident lot of Seraphin. He was Maurice Houdon, who had decided some day to be a great composer and who meanwhile overcharged a few English and American pupils for lessons on the piano and borrowed money from any that would trust him. He stormed Dieudonné, leaned over the intervening table and embraced him. "My dear friend!" he cried, his arms outflung, his fingers rattling rapid arpeggios upon invisible pianos. "You are indeed well found. I have news--such news!" He thrust back his head and warbled a laugh worthy of the mad-scene in _Lucia_. "Listen well." Again he embraced the unresisting Seraphin. "This night we dine here; we make a collation--a symposium: we feed both our bodies and our souls. I shall sit at the head of the table in the little room on the first floor, and you will sit at the foot. Armand Garnier will read his new poem; Devignes will sing my latest song; Philippe Varachon and you will discourse on your arts; and I--perhaps I shall let you persuade me to play the fugue that I go to write for the death of the President: it is all but ready against the day that a president chooses to die." But Seraphin's thoughts were fixed on the food for the body. "You make no jest with me, Maurice?" "Jest with you? I jest with you? No, my friend. I do not jest when I invite a guest to dine with me." "I comprehend," said Dieudonné; "but who is to be the host?" At that question, Pasbeaucoup rose from his chair, and Madame, his wife, tried to thrust her nose, which was too short to reach, through the bars of her cage. The composer struck a chord on his breast and bowed. "True: the host," said he. "I had forgotten. I have found a veritable patron of my art. He has had the room above mine for two years, and I did not once before suspect him. He is an American of the United States." Madame's contralto shook her prison bars: "There is no American that can appreciate art." "True, Madame," admitted Houdon, bowing profoundly; "there is no American that can appreciate art, and there is no American millionaire that can help patronizing it." "Eh, he is a millionaire, then, this American?" demanded Madame, audibly mollified. "He has that honor." "And his name?"--Madame wanted to make a memorandum of that name. Houdon struck another chord. It was as if he were sounding a fanfare for the entrance of his hero. "Charles Cartaret." He pronounced the first name in the French fashion and the second name "Cartarette." Seraphin's reply to this announcement rather spoiled its effect. He laughed, and his laughter was high and mocking.