Such as it is,—­with its failings and its vices, even a full century after the fame of Procope,—­the cafe, which we cannot drive out of our memories, has been the asylum and the refuge of many charming spirits.  The old Tabourey, who, after having been illustrious, now has a sort of half popularity and a pewter bar, formerly heard the captivating conversations of Barbey and of Aurevilly, who were rivals in the noblest salons, and who sometimes preferred to converse seated before a marble table in a hall from which one could see the foliage and the flowers of the Luxembourg.  Baudelaire also talked there, with his clear caressing voice dropping diamonds and precious stones, like the princess of the fairy tale, from beautiful red, somewhat thick lips.

A problem with no possible solution holds in check the writers and the artists of Paris.  When one has worked hard all day it is pleasant to take a seat, during the short stroll that precedes the dinner, to meet one’s comrades and talk with them of everything but politics.  The only favorable place for these necessary accidental meetings is the cafe; but is the game worth the candle, or, to speak more exactly, the blinding gas-jets?  Is it worth while, for the pleasure of exchanging words, to accept criminal absinthe, unnatural bitters, tragic vermouth, concocted in the sombre laboratories of the cafes by frightful parasites?

Aurelien Scholl, who, being a fine poet and excellent writer, is naturally a practical man, had a pleasing idea.  He wished that the reunions in the cafes might continue at the absinthe hour, but without the absinthe!  A very honest man, chosen for that purpose, would pour out for the passers-by, in place of everything else, excellent claret with quinquina, which would have the double advantage of not poisoning them and of giving them a wholesome and comforting drink.  But this seductive dream could never be realized.  Of course, honest men exist in great numbers, among keepers of cafes as well as in other walks of life; but the individual honest man could not be found who would be willing to pour out quinquina wine in which there was both quinquina and wine.

In the Palais Royal there used to be a cafe which had retained Empire fittings and oil lamps.  One found there real wine, real coffee, real milk, and good beefsteaks.  Roqueplan, Arsene Houssaye, Michel Levy, and the handsome Fiorentino used to breakfast there, and they knew how to get the best mushrooms.  The proprietor of the cafe had said that as soon as he could no longer make a living by selling genuine articles, he would not give up his stock in trade to another, but would sell his furniture and shut up shop.  He kept his word.  He was a hero.

     BALLADE ON THE MYSTERIOUS HOSTS OF THE FOREST

     From ‘The Caryatids’