Max

own the hundred-odd steps of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, taking an occasional peep into some dark and silent corner, halting here and there to glance into the dimly lighted h

the question in a whisper, as if fearful of disturbing th

d on the fourth a poet or perhaps a musician, like our fiddler of Louise. This is the real Bohemia, y

ce again traversing the dim rue André de Sarte, t

nswer. "Yes, I think I understand. It m

tion. You get that blending of egoism and originality-daring and s

tmosphere as well as in a lawless one?" The question came softly. Max had ceased to look about him, cea

The tares among

es

but such growths are mostly unsatisfactory. Forced

y n

ss about all forced things, and the hallmark

lways craved to be a tare with other tares-until at length its roots spread and spread and passed b

woke within it. I know! I know! I know Bohemia-love Bohemia-but at best I am only a naturalized Bohemian. I can live on a crust with these good creatures, or I can send my gold flying with theirs, but I'm hanged if, for instance, I can sin in quite the delicious, child-like, w

when it met the eager impetuosity of

agree with you wholly! Individuality has nothing t

to the right-about and made realism my god, but as time has gone on my theories have gone back on me, and tradition has come into its own,

ry-the things that burn themselves out. My theory is not of the body, it is of the mind. I only

reversible! My fire has been extinguished; your ice will ho

it! I

suddenly opened to a fresh impression, were lured from the moment of gravity, caught and held by the lights and crowds into which th

said, sharply. "W

nade des Invalides that morning. "Come! I'm going to insist upon a new medicine; my first prescription was not the right one. You're too theoretical to-night for a place of traditions. We'll shelve our little c

would much--

't! I have spok

e wide roadway, round a corner, and through wh

re assailed by a flood of joyous sound in the form of a rhythmic, swinging waltz-his eyes blinked before the flood of light to which the Parisian pins his faith for public pleasures-and his nostrils were assailed by a penetrating smell of scent and smoke. Dazed and a little frightened he drew back against a wall, overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Superficially there was little astonishing in the Bal Tabarin; but

is bright glance ranged from the gay red of the bandsmen's coats to the lines of spectators sitting at the little tables under the galleries, returning inevitably and pe

reely used paint and powder like some unpurchasable essence. Among this crowd of women some were fair, some brown, a few red-haired, but the vast majority belonged to the type that was to become familiar to Max as the true Montmartroise-the girl possessed of the dead white face, the red, sensual lips, the imperfectly chiselled nose, attractive in its very imperfection, and the eyes-black, brown, or gray-that see in a s

ning dress, others with little clerks in ill-fitting clothes and bowler hats, while many chose eac

egret parted his lips as the waltz crashed to a finish and the dancers moved in a body toward the tables and the bars. Then f

ng it! Come and find a seat! The next will be one of the speci

ill da

the best-looking of those girls with the elaborate linger

n. "And the others?" he added. "That fair girl, for example, sitting

le available capital is sunk in that Pierrot hat and those pretty shoes; and he-well, he might be anything with that queer, clever head! But he's probably a poet, in the guise of a journalist, pi

eir friends among the audience. While Max's interested eyes were travelling from one face to another, the signal was given, and with an electric spontaneity the dance began. It was a wonderful dance-a dance of sensuous contortion crossed and arrested at every moment by the fierce flash of pride, the swift gesture of contempt indicative of the l

, shrill call that indicated an encore pierced through the smoke-laden air; and without question

t of intoxication he had no glance to spare for his neighbors. Even

oy! What wil

nk, mon ami,

at all with circumstance; his gesture was imperiously reckless, the space about him was crowded to suffocation; by

n of his awkwardness; one or two people near them laughed, and, flushi

less, but her clothes were costly and her figure fine, if a trifle robust. At sound of the boy's voice she turned. Her movement was slow and deliberate; her gaze, in which a dull resentmen

t I thought you had

half humorous, half satirical-that he had bestowed dispassionately upon the young Englishman in the train the night before, a

t shadow of surprise. "Well, if I have been dead, I am now resurre

ree glasses were brought and filled, while Max watched the perfor

y friend who dared to interfere with that marvell

t have told why, and the lady

been a woman." Then, sensible of having di

on cher? It has b

n! If it isn't quite the same world that it was, the fault's i

she shivered, then laughed a little

Don't say s

understanding. "Come, Lize! The old times aren't so far behind us! 'Twas only yesterday that Jacques Aujet painted you as the Bacchante in his 'Masque of Folly

to rest upon her-a something tangible and even fearful

less voice, "do you remember t

ooked up again, surfeiting her senses with the crowds

ame round, is it not so? Life and love and jealou

he turned, there was a flutter of interest among the tables be

little gasp. "Lize! He

of that most attractive type, the fair Parisienne; her complexion was of wax-like paleness, her blonde hair broke into little waves and tendrils under her Pierrot hat, while her eyes, clear and blue, proclaimed her extreme youth.

r cry, and laid a plump, jewelled h

My child, w

Lucien is here!

but the elder woman as

Lucien

shook h

beast-wh

a light flickered up into Lize's eyes as she scanned the crowd divided from them

f conscious enjoyment-that grasping of the mere moment that the Parisian has reduced to a science. It enveloped him like a veil-the artless artificiality of Paris! Everywhere fans emblazoned with the words Bal Tabarin fluttered like butterflies, everywhere cigar smoke mingled w

the crowd about him, a little flutter of interest as he made an unsteady way across the waxed floor, a little sm

ze, the man with the slow insolence that drink induces. At last, muttering some words in a gut

eized upon Max; while the woman Lize suddenly braced herself, changing from

!" And she added a phrase that had never found place in Max

n's rage. He freed the girl's arm and struck the table

eet, chairs were overturned, a torrent of words poured forth from both actors and spectator

the girl by the waist-saw, to his breathless amazement, the woman Lize suddenly grasp the champagne bottle and fling it full into his face; then, abruptly,

n the cold fresh air of the street, he

ded. "I think you were a cowa

. "There are some battle-fields, boy, where discretion is obviously the better part of val

looked i

as a frien

end! M

alled you

the fact that she once loved and was loved by a man I knew. Poor Lize! She had a bit too much heart for the game she

ill wide, but the

e brute, and the man with the clever head? What

rted to reply,

"Come along back to your hotel; yo