. . .nd-franc note was safe in his pocket, whilst the waiter respread the table with all sorts of cold things—oysters, mayonnaise, and galantine.

“I,” said Gaillard, “am unfortunate at both.”

He attacked some oysters like a wolf, whilst Struve, with the withered rose in his coat, whistled a mournful air of Berlioz’ whilst he cut a sardine in three and put a pinch of pepper on it.

De Nani was at the champagne again like a leech, whilst he feasted like a man off a wreck. He looked a horribly wicked old man in the dawn, which mixed with the electric light; the paint from his cheeks was on his nose and chin, and his wig38 was awry. It was a cheerless party; Pelisson was half asleep, and Toto as white as a ghost. Gaillard, his cuff scribbled over with lunatic poetry, cast his mournful eyes at the dawn peeping in white over the silent Boulevard des Capucines.

“I was once a youth,” said Gaillard. &ldq. . . Read More