"Where are they? Here? You see not. It is a stunted generation, my gentle little lambs. Why _sacré nom de Saint-Antoine_!" he cried, with one of his apposite oaths, "the very pigs in the good days could teach you lessons in the romantic. Vices you have--but the noble passions? No! Did you ever hear of the Café du Cochon Fidèle? Of course not. What do you know? It was situated in the Rue des Cordiers. Mimi la Blonde was the _demoiselle du comptoir_. Ah _bigre_! There are no such _demoiselles du comptoir_ now. Exquisite. Ah!" He blew a kiss from the tips of his long nails. "You are very impolite, Monsieur Paragot," cried Madame Boin from her throne. "Listen, Madame," said he, "to the story of the pig and you shall judge. The whole quartier was mad for Mimi, including a pig. Yes, a great fat clean pig with sentimental eyes. He belonged to the _charcutier_ opposite. I am telling you the authentic history of the _Quartier_. Every day the devoted animal would stand at the door and gaze at Mimi with adoration--ah! but such an adoration, my children, an adoration, respectful, passionate, without hope. Only now and then his poor sensitive snout quivered his despair. Sometimes happier rivals, with two legs, _mais pour ça pas moins cochons que lui_, admitted him into the café. He would sit before the counter, his little tail well arranged behind him, his ears cocked up politely, his eyes full of tears--he wept like a cow this poor Népomucène--they called him Népomucène--and when Mimi looked at him he would utter little cries of the heart like a strangulated troubadour. Ah, it was hopeless this passion; but for one long year he never wavered. The _Quartier_ respected him. Of him it was said: "Love is given to us as a measure to gauge our power of suffering." Suddenly Mimi disappeared. She married a certain Godiveau, a charcoal merchant in the vicinity. Népomucène stood all day by the door with haggard eyes. Then knowing she would return no more, he walked with a determined air to the roadway of the Boul' Mich' and cast himself beneath the wheels of an omnibus. He committed suicide." Paragot stopped abruptly and finished his absinthe. There was vociferous applause. I have never met anyone with his gift of magical narration. Hercule was summoned amid a confused hubbub and received orders for eight or nine different kinds of drink. We were fantastic in our potations in those days.