The Café Delphine was far from being the school of discretion and good manners that Paragot frequented in his youth, but such was his personal influence that when he reappeared in his usual place no one dared allude to the disconcerting incident. Paragot had recovered from the chastened mood and was gay, Rabelaisian, and with great gestures talked of all subjects under heaven. One of the International Exhibitions was in prospect and many architects' offices were busy with projects for the new buildings. A discussion on these having arisen--two of our company were architectural students--Paragot declared that the Exhibition would be incomplete without a Palais de Dipsomanie. Indeed it should be the central feature. "_Tiens!_" he cried, "I have an inspiration! Some one give me a soft black pencil. Hercule, clear the table." He caught the napkin from beneath Hercule's arm and as soon as the glasses were removed, he dried the marble top, and holding the pencil draughtsman's fashion, a couple of inches from the point, began to draw with feverish haste. His long fingers worked magically. We bent over him, holding our breath, as gradually emerged the most marvellous, weird, riotous dream of drunken architecture the world could ever behold. There were columns admirably indicated, upside down. The domes looked like tops of half inflated balloons. Enormous buttresses supporting nothing leaned incapable against the building. Bottles and wine cups formed part of the mad construction. Satyrs' heads leered instead of windows. The whole palace looked reeling drunk. It was a tremendous feat of imagination and skill. The hour that he spent in elaborating it passed like five minutes. When he had finished he threw down his pencil. "_Voilà!_" Then he called for his drink and emptied the glass at a gulp. We all clamoured our admiration. "But Paragot," cried one of the architectural students in considerable excitement, "you are a trained architect, and a great architect! It is the work of a genius. Garnier himself could not have done it." Paragot whipped up the napkin from the seat and, before we could protest, rubbed the drawing into a black smudge. "I am a poet, painter, architect, musician and philosopher, _mon petit_ Bibi," said he, "and my name is Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot." It was growing late and we all rose in a body--except Paragot, who made a point of remaining after everyone had gone. He caught me by the sleeve. "Stay a bit to-night, my little Asticot," said he. Usually he would not allow me to remain late at the Café. It was bad for my health; and indeed I was not supposed to waste my time thus more than two evenings a week. Paragot did not include my seeing him make a Helot of himself as part of my education. This was the theory at the back of his mind. In practice it had occurred at intervals since the days (or nights) of the Lotus Club.