And he made plans; he would have liked to know some of these celebrated men, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an evening with them from time to time in Paris.

But suddenly an idea struck him.  He had heard allusions to little cafes in the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men of letters, and even musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up to Montmartre at a slow pace.

He had two hours before him.  He wanted to look about him.  He passed in front of taverns frequented by belated bohemians, gazing at the different faces, seeking to discover the artists.  Finally, he came to the sign of “The Dead Rat,” and, allured by the name, he entered.

Five or six women, with their elbows resting on the marble tables, were talking in low tones about their love affairs, the quarrels of Lucie and Hortense, and the scoundrelism of Octave.  They were no longer young, were too fat or too thin, tired out, used up.  You could see that they were almost bald; and they drank beer like men.

M. Saval sat down at some distance from them and waited, for the hour for taking absinthe was at hand.

A tall young man soon came in and took a seat beside him.  The landlady called him M.  “Romantin.”  The notary quivered.  Was this the Romantin who had taken a medal at the last Salon?

The young man made a sign to the waiter.

“You will bring up my dinner at once, and then carry to my new studio, 15 Boulevard de Clichy, thirty bottles of beer, and the ham I ordered this morning.  We are going to have a housewarming.”

M. Saval immediately ordered dinner.  Then, he took off his overcoat, so that his dress suit and his white tie could be seen.  His neighbor did not seem to notice him.  He had taken up a newspaper, and was reading it.  M. Saval glanced sideways at him, burning with the desire to speak to him.

Two young men entered, in red vests and with peaked beards, in the fashion of Henry III.  They sat down opposite Romantin.

The first of the pair said: 

“Is it for this evening?”

Romantin pressed his hand.

“I believe you, old chap, and everyone will be there.  I have Bonnat, Guillemet, Gervex, Beraud, Hebert, Duez, Clairin, and Jean-Paul Laurens.  It will be a stunning affair!  And women, too!  Wait till you see!  Every actress without exception—­of course I mean, you know, all those who have nothing to do this evening.”

The landlord of the establishment came across.

“Do you often have this housewarming?”

The painter replied: 

“I believe you, every three months, each quarter.”

M. Saval could not restrain himself any longer, and in a hesitating voice said: 

“I beg your pardon for intruding on you, monsieur, but I heard your name mentioned, and I would be very glad to know if you really are M. Romantin, whose work in the last Salon I have so much admired?”