“I have to thank you very much for a pleasant evening, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Glad I ran into you.  It has done me no end of good.  I leave for the East to-morrow.  Is there any possibility of seeing you in the Balkans this fall?”

“No.  I am going to try my luck in America again.”

“My club address you will find on my card.  You must go?  It’s only the shank of the evening.”

“I have a little work to do.  Some day I hope I may be able to set as good a dinner before you.”

“Better have a cigar.”

“No, thank you.”

And Fitzgerald liked him none the less for his firmness.  So he went as far as the entrance with him.

“Don’t bother about calling a cab,” said Breitmann.  “It has stopped raining, and the walk will tone me up.  Good night and good luck.”

And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and equally careless whether they did or not.

Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length entered a gloomy old pension over a restaurant frequented by bargemen, students, and human driftwood.  As he climbed the badly lighted stairs, a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed him, coming down.  A “pardon” was mumbled, and the little man proceeded into the restaurant, picked a Figaro from the table littered with newspapers, ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered coffee.  No one gave him more than a cursory glance.  The quarter was indigent, but ordinarily respectable; and it was only when some noisy Americans invaded the place that the habitues took any unusual interest in the coming and going of strangers.

Up under the mansard roof there was neither gas nor electricity.  Breitmann lighted his two candles, divested himself of his collar, tie, and coat, and flung them on the bed.

“Threadbare, almost!  Ah, but I was hungry to-night.  Did he know it?  Why the devil should I care?  To work!  Up to this night I have tried to live more or less honestly.  I have tried to take the good that is in me and to make the most of it.  And,” ironically, “this is the result.  I have failed.  Now we’ll see what I can accomplish in the way of being a great rascal.”

He knelt before a small steamer trunk, battered and plentifully labeled, and unscrewed the lock.  From a cleverly concealed pocket he brought forth a packet of papers.  These he placed on the table and unfolded with almost reverent care.  Sometimes he shrugged, as one does who is confronted by huge obstacles, sometimes he laughed harshly, sometimes his jaws hardened and his fingers writhed.  When he had done—­and many and many a time he had repeated this performance, studied the faded ink, the great seal, the watermarks—­he hid them away in the trunk again.

He now approached the open window and leaned out.  Glittering Paris, wonderful city!  How the lights from the bridges twinkled on the wind-wrinkled Seine!  Over there lay the third wealth of the world; luxury, vice, pleasure.  Eh, well, he could not fight it, but he could curse it deeply and violently, which he did.