“But,” he added, “I am willing to relate an adventure that happened to myself in Rome two winters ago, if my honorable brother Chicards will be pleased to hear it.”

An immense burst of approbation from all but Monsieur Tourterelle and the bald sleeper, followed this announcement; and so, after a preliminary grog au vin, and another explosive demonstration on the part of the chairman, Monsieur Mueller thus began:—­

THE STUDENT’S STORY.

“When I was in Rome, I lodged in the Via Margutta, which, for the benefit of those who have not been there, may be described as a street of studios and stables, crossed at one end by a little roofed gallery with a single window, like a shabby ‘Bridge of Sighs,’ A gutter runs down the middle, interrupted occasionally by heaps of stable-litter; and the perspective is damaged by rows of linen suspended across the street at uncertain intervals.  The houses in this agreeable thoroughfare are dingy, dilapidated, and comfortless, and all which are not in use as stables, are occupied by artists.  However, it was a very jolly place, and I never was happier anywhere in my life.  I had but just touched my little patrimony, and I was acquainted with plenty of pleasant fellows who used to come down to my rooms at night from the French Academy where they had been studying all day.  Ah, what evenings those were!  What suppers we used to have in from the Lepre!  What lots of Orvieto we drank!  And what a mountain of empty wicker bottles had to be cleared away from the little square yard with the solitary lemon-tree at the back of the house!”

“Come, Mueller—­no fond memories!” cried a student in a holland blouse.  “Get on with the story.”

“Ay, get on with the story!” echoed several voices.

To which Mueller, who took advantage of the interruption to finish his grog au vin, deigned no reply.

“Well,” he continued, “like a good many other fellows who, having everything to learn and nothing to do, fancy themselves great geniuses only because they are in Rome, I put a grand brass plate on the door, testifying to all passers-by that mine was the STUDIO DI HERR FRANZ MULLER; and, having done this, I believed, of course, that my fortune was to be made out of hand.  Nothing came of it, however.  People in search of Dessoulavy’s rooms knocked occasionally to ask their way, and a few English and Americans dropped in from time to time to stare about them, after the free-and-easy fashion of foreigners in Rome; but, for all this, I found no patrons.  Thus several months went by, during which I studied from the life, worked hard at the antique, and relieved the monotony of study with occasional trips to Frascati, or supper parties at the Cafe Greco.”

“The story! the story!” interrupted a dozen impatient voices.

“All in good time,” said Mueller, with provoking indifference.  “We are now coming to it.”