A faint heartbeat of the street’s ancient glory still survives in a corner occupied by the Cafe Carabine d’Or.  Once men gathered there to plot against kings, and to warn presidents.  They do so yet, but they are not the same kind of men.  A brass button will scatter these; those would have set their faces against an army.  Above the door hangs the sign board, upon which has been depicted a vast animal of unfamiliar species.  In the act of firing upon this monster is represented an unobtrusive human levelling an obtrusive gun, once the colour of bright gold.  Now the legend above the picture is faded beyond conjecture; the gun’s relation to the title is a matter of faith; the menaced animal, wearied of the long aim of the hunter, has resolved itself into a shapeless blot.

The place is known as “Antonio’s,” as the name, white upon the red-lit transparency, and gilt upon the windows, attests.  There is a promise in “Antonio”; a justifiable expectancy of savoury things in oil and pepper and wine, and perhaps an angel’s whisper of garlic.  But the rest of the name is “O’Riley.”  Antonio O’Riley!

The Carabine d’Or is an ignominious ghost of the Rue Chartres.  The cafe where Bienville and Conti dined, where a prince has broken bread, is become a “family ristaurant.”

Its customers are working men and women, almost to a unit.  Occasionally you will see chorus girls from the cheaper theatres, and men who follow avocations subject to quick vicissitudes; but at Antonio’s—­name rich in Bohemian promise, but tame in fulfillment—­ manners debonair and gay are toned down to the “family” standard.  Should you light a cigarette, mine host will touch you on the “arrum” and remind you that the proprieties are menaced.  “Antonio” entices and beguiles from fiery legend without, but “O’Riley” teaches decorum within.

It was at this restaurant that Lorison first saw the girl.  A flashy fellow with a predatory eye had followed her in, and had advanced to take the other chair at the little table where she stopped, but Lorison slipped into the seat before him.  Their acquaintance began, and grew, and now for two months they had sat at the same table each evening, not meeting by appointment, but as if by a series of fortuitous and happy accidents.  After dining, they would take a walk together in one of the little city parks, or among the panoramic markets where exhibits a continuous vaudeville of sights and sounds.  Always at eight o’clock their steps led them to a certain street corner, where she prettily but firmly bade him good night and left him.  “I do not live far from here,” she frequently said, “and you must let me go the rest of the way alone.”

But now Lorison had discovered that he wanted to go the rest of the way with her, or happiness would depart, leaving, him on a very lonely corner of life.  And at the same time that he made the discovery, the secret of his banishment from the society of the good laid its finger in his face and told him it must not be.