They all stood up and drank the toast in solemn silence; and Horace standing there at the head of his table, they each passed by, handing him a keepsake for remembrance, grasped his hand, and after a husky greeting, strode out of the room. Babette was the last to go. She went up to Horace, drew down his face between her white hands, and kissed him upon the mouth. He stroked her head; they spake never a word. Her eyes filled with tears, and she hastily followed the others out of the room. Horace was left alone with the solemn waiters. He stood for awhile, too much touched to speak. He roused himself at last with an effort. “Jean!” he said. The old head waiter came to him. Horace held out his hand and grasped the shy hand of the other. “Jean,” said Horace--“you are an artist.” The man’s face flushed with pleasure. Horace took a banknote from his pocket and flung it on the table: “Divide that amongst the waiters,” he said; “and, Jean, give this to your good wife--it will help little Marie to her dowry.” He handed the man a crisp banknote; and the old fellow’s eyes filled with tears.... As the door closed on Horace, one of them laughed: “Ah, mon Dieu!” said he drily--“that they should ever grow wise!” “Silence!” roared the old waiter. Horace, as he passed through the doorway, was greeted by Gaston Latour: “You must skip down the highway of youth for the last time, Horace,” said he. “You must once again eat the dawn on the Boule Miche. Forward, comrades!” They, all hatted and cloaked, flung his cloak over his shoulders, set his black slouch hat upon his head, and together tramped down the stairs and out into the street; and, linking arms, the students and their young women strolled along the roadway and made for the Boule Miche, singing a rousing student song--the dark and deserted street echoing to the racket. They came out on the Place St. Michel, took hands, and in the dim moonlight they danced in a wide ring before the fountain in the wall where in his niche the bronze saint slays the dragon at the threshold of the student’s world. Out of breath, they went and leaned over the parapet of the bridge of St. Michel, and then one sighed, and silence fell upon them all. Out of the flood loomed the great towers of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and low down and beyond twinkled the lights of the Morgue; and, beyond all, the waters of the river swirled into the mists sweeping on to the restless sea--out into the night and the eternal mystery. Gaston Latour leading, they clambered down to the river’s edge; and they sprinkled Horace with the waters of the Seine, and made him for ever a citizen of Paris.