"Is it really you, Monsieur Paragot? One sees you no more. How is that? But it is charming. Ah? You have been _en voyage_? In England? _On dit que c'est beau là-bas._ And where will you sit? Your place is taken. It is Monsieur Papillard, the poet, who has sat there for a month. We will find another table. There is one that is free." She pointed to a draughty, unconsidered table by the door. Paragot looked at it, then at Madame Boin and then at his own private and particular table usurped by Monsieur Papillard and his associates, and swore a stupefied oath of considerable complication. A weird, pug-nosed, pig-eyed, creature with a goatee beard scarce masking a receding chin, sat in the sacred seat against the wall. His hat and cloak were hung on Paragot's peg. He was reading a poem to half a dozen youths who seemed all to be drinking _mazagrans_, or coffee in long glasses. They combined an air of intellectual intensity with one of lyrical enthusiasm, like little owls pretending to be larks. Not one of the old set was there to smile a welcome. We stood by the counter listening to the poem. When Monsieur Papillard had ended, the youths broke into applause. "_C'est superbe!_" "_Un chef d'oeuvre, cher maître._" They called the pug-nosed creature, _cher maître_! "It is demented idiocy," murmured my astounded master. At that moment entered Félicien Garbure, a down-at-heel elderly man, who had been wont to sit at Paragot's table. He was one of those parasitic personages not unknown in the _Quartier_, who contrived to attach themselves to the special circle of a café, and to drink as much as possible at other people's expense. His education and intelligence would have disgraced a Paris cabman, but an ironical Providence had invested him with an air of wisdom which gave to his flattery the value of profound criticism. This sycophant greeted us with effusion. Where had we been? Why had the delightful band been dispersed? Did we know Monsieur Papillard, the great poet? Before we could reply he approached the chair. "_Cher maître_, permit me to present to you my friends Monsieur Berzélius Paragot and Monsieur Asticot." "_Enchanté, Messieurs_," said the great poet urbanely. We likewise avowed our enchantment, and Paragot swore beneath his breath. The waiter--no longer Hercule, who had been dismissed for petty thievery some time before--but a new waiter who did not know Paragot--set us chairs at the end of the table far away from the great man. We ordered drinks. Paragot emptied his glass in an absent-minded manner, still under the shock of his downfall. But a few short months ago he had ruled in this place as king. Now he was patronizingly presented to the snub-nosed, idiot usurper by Félicien Garbure. _His_ friend, Berzélius Paragot! _Nom de Dieu!_ And he was assigned a humble place below the salt. Verily the world was upside down. "Give me another _grog_," said Paragot, "a double one."