“Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good,” they said.  “He’s quite hopeless.”

They prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; and though, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, they patronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as a feather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there to be particularly wonderful.  Cronshaw never came to Gravier’s.  For the last four years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only Lawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of the most dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands Augustins:  Lawson described with gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter.

“And the stink nearly blew your head off.”

“Not at dinner, Lawson,” expostulated one of the others.

But he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque details of the odours which met his nostril.  With a fierce delight in his own realism he described the woman who had opened the door for him.  She was dark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always on the point of coming down.  She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets.  With her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she reminded you of the Bohemienne in the Louvre by Franz Hals.  She had a flaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified.  A scrubby, unwashed baby was playing on the floor.  It was known that the slut deceived Cronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was a mystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table that Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty could ally himself to such a creature.  But he seemed to revel in the coarseness of her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the gutter.  He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge.  Cronshaw was very poor.  He earned a bare subsistence by writing on the exhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a certain amount of translating.  He had been on the staff of an English paper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still however did odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel Drouot or the revues at music-halls.  The life of Paris had got into his bones, and he would not change it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any other in the world.  He remained there all through the year, even in summer when everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within a mile of the Boulevard St. Michel.  But the curious thing was that he had never learnt to speak French passably, and he kept in his shabby clothes bought at La Belle Jardiniere an ineradicably English appearance.

He was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a half ago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar.

“I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds,” he said himself.  “What I want is a patron.  I should have published my poems by subscription and dedicated them to a nobleman.  I long to compose rhymed couplets upon the poodle of a countess.  My soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the conversation of bishops.”