On leaving Lemercier and De Breze, Savarin regained the Boulevard, and pausing every now and then to exchange a few words with acquaintances-- the acquaintances of the genial author were numerous--turned into the _quartier_ Chaussee d'Antin, and gaining a small neat house, with a richly-ornamented _facade_, mounted very clean, well-kept stairs to a third story. On one of the doors on the landing-place was nailed a card, inscribed, "Gustave Rameau, _homme de lettres_." Certainly it is not usual in Paris thus to _afficher_ one's self as a "man of letters"? But Genius scorns what is usual. Had not Victor Hugo left in the hotel-books on the Rhine his designation "homme de lettres"? Did not the heir to one of the loftiest houses in the peerage of England, and who was also a first-rate amateur in painting, inscribe on his studio when in Italy, "-- _artiste_"? Such examples, no doubt, were familiar to Gustave Rameau, and "_homme de lettres_" was on the scrap of pasteboard nailed to his door. Savarin rang; the door opened, and Gustave appeared. The poet was, of course, picturesquely attired. In his day of fashion he had worn within doors a very pretty fanciful costume, designed after portraits of the young Raffaelle; that costume he had preserved--he wore it now. It looked very threadbare, and the _pourpoint_ very soiled. But the beauty of the poet's face had survived the lustre of the garments. True, thanks to absinthe, the cheeks had become somewhat puffy and bloated. Grey was distinctly visible in the long ebon tresses. But still the beauty of the face was of that rare type which a Thorwaldsen or a Gibson seeking a model for a Narcissus would have longed to fix into marble. Gustave received his former chief with a certain air of reserved dignity; led him into his chamber, only divided by a curtain from his accommodation for washing and slumber, and placed him in an arm-chair beside a drowsy fire--fuel had already become very dear. "Gustave," said Savarin, "are you in a mood favourable to a little serious talk?" "Serious talk from M. Savarin is a novelty too great not to command my profoundest interest." "Thank you,--and to begin: I who know the world and mankind advise you, who do not, never to meet a man who wishes to do you a kindness with an ungracious sarcasm. Irony is a weapon I ought to be skilled in, but weapons are used against enemies, and it is only a tyro who flourishes his rapier in the face of his friends." "I was not aware that M. Savarin still permitted me to regard him as a friend."