The four friends went forth from this splendid feast as intoxicated as on a day of vintage.  Their inebriety came near bearing deplorable fruits for Marcel, because as he passed the shop of his tailor, at two o’clock in the morning, he absolutely insisted upon awakening his creditor in order to give him, on account, the one hundred and fifty francs that he had just received.  But a gleam of reason still awake in the brain of Colline held back the artist from the brink of this precipice.

A week after this festivity Marcel learned in what gallery his picture had found a place.  Passing along the Faubourg Saint-Honore, he stopped in the midst of a crowd that seemed to be staring at a sign newly placed above a shop.  This sign was none other than Marcel’s painting, which had been sold by Medicis to a dealer in provisions.  Only the “Passage of the Red Sea” had once again undergone a modification and bore a new title.  A steamboat had been added to it, and it was now called “In the Port of Marseilles.”  A flattering ovation arose among the crowd when they discovered the picture.  And Marcel turned away delighted with this triumph, and murmured softly:  “The voice of the people is the voice of God!”

THE WOMAN AND THE CAT

BY MARCEL PREVOST

“Yes,” said our old friend Tribourdeaux, a man of culture and a philosopher, which is a combination rarely found among army surgeons; “yes, the supernatural is everywhere; it surrounds us and hems us in and permeates us.  If science pursues it, it takes flight and cannot be grasped.  Our intellect resembles those ancestors of ours who cleared a few acres of forest; whenever they approached the limits of their clearing they heard low growls and saw gleaming eyes everywhere circling them about.  I myself have had the sensation of having approached the limits of the unknown several times in my life, and on one occasion in particular.”

A young lady present interrupted him: 

“Doctor, you are evidently dying to tell us a story.  Come now, begin!”

The doctor bowed.

“No, I am not in the least anxious, I assure you.  I tell this story as seldom as possible, for it disturbs those who hear it, and it disturbs me also.  However, if you wish it, here it is: 

“In 1863 I was a young physician stationed at Orleans.  In that patrician city, full of aristocratic old residences, it is difficult to find bachelor apartments; and, as I like both plenty of air and plenty of room, I took up my lodging on the first floor of a large building situated just outside the city, near Saint-Euverte.  It had been originally constructed to serve as the warehouse and also as the dwelling of a manufacturer of rugs.  In course of time the manufacturer had failed, and this big barrack that he had built, falling out of repair through lack of tenants, had been sold for a song with all its furnishings.  The purchaser