Paragot ordered another drink. It was astonishing, said he, how provocative of thirst was any diversion from the ordinary course of life. "If the pig of the Café Cordier had been human," he remarked, "he would have sat down and consumed intoxicating liquors instead of throwing himself under the wheels of an omnibus. My son," he said with solemn eyes, "reverence that pig. It is few of us who have his courage and single-heartedness." He went on talking for some time in a semi-coherent strain, clouding over with dim allusions the vital idea which, I verily believe, had I been a kind woman of the world instead of a raw youth of nineteen, he would have crystallised with flaming speech. I could only listen to him dumbly, vaguely divinatory through my love for him and I suppose through a certain temperamental sensitiveness, but alas! uncomprehending by reason of my inexperience in the deeps of life. Presently he announced that he was ready to start. He walked somewhat unsteadily to the door, his hand on my shoulder. "My little son Asticot," said he on the threshold, "I am so far on my road to immortality that I ought to have vine-leaves in my hair; instead of which I have wormwood in my heart. Will you kindly take me to the Pont Neuf." "But dear Master," said I, "what on earth are you going to do there?" "I have something important to say to Henri Quatre." "You can say it better," I urged, "in the Rue des Saladiers." "To the Pont Neuf," said he brusquely, pushing me away. I had to humour him. We started up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It was drizzling with rain. "Master, we had better go home." He did not reply, but strode on. I have a catlike dislike of rain. I bear it philosophically, but that is all. To carry on a conversation during a persistent downpour is beyond my powers. I might as well try to sing under water. Paragot, who ordinarily was indifferent to the seasons' difference, and would discourse gaily in a deluge, walked on in silence. We went along amid the umbrella-covered crowd, past the steaming terraces of cafés, whose lights set the kiosques in a steady glare and sent shafts of yellow from the tops of stationary cabs, and caught the wet passing traffic in livid flashes, and illuminated faces to an unreal significance; down the gloom-enveloped, silent quais frowned upon by the dim and monstrous masses of architecture, guarding the Seine like phantasmagorical bastions, none visible in outline, but only felt looming in the rain-filled night, until we reached the statue of Paragot's tutelary King. And the rain fell miserably. We were wet through. I put my hand on his dripping sleeve. "Master, let me see you home." He shook me off roughly. "You can go." "But dear Master," I implored. He put both hands behind his head and threw out his arms in a great gesture. "Boy! Can't you see," cried he, "that I am in agony of soul?"