Paul Sillery, who has also made Maurice’s acquaintance, loiters in this studio.  The amiable Bohemian has not yet paid his bill to Pere Lebuffle, but he has cut his red fleece close to his head, and publishes every Sunday, in the journals, news full of grace and humor.  Of course they will never pardon him at the Cafe de Seville; the “long-haired” ones have disowned this traitor who has gone over to the enemy, and is now only a sickening and fetid bourgeois; and if the poetical club were able to enforce its decrees, Paul Sillery, like an apostate Jew in the times of the Inquisition, would have been scourged and burned alive.  Paul Sillery does not trouble himself about it, however; and from time to time returns to the “Seville” and treats its members to a bumper all around, which he pays for with the gold of his dishonor.  Sometimes Jocquelet appears, with his smooth-shaved face; but only rarely, for he is at present a very busy man and already celebrated.  His audacious nose is reproduced in all positions and displayed in photographers’ windows, where he has for neighbors the negatives most in demand; for instance, the fatherly and benevolent face of the pope; Pius IX, or the international limbs of Mademoiselle Ketty, the majestic fairy, in tights.  The journals, which print Jocquelet’s name, treat him sympathetically and conspicuously, and are full of his praises.  “He is good to his old aunt,” “gives alms,” “picked up a lost dog in the street the other evening.”  An artist such as he, who stamps immortality on all the comic repertory, and takes Moliere under his wing, has no time to go to visit friends, that is understood.  However, he still honors Maurice Roger with short visits.  He only has time to make all the knickknacks and china on the sideboard tremble with the noise of his terrible voice; only time to tell how, on the night before, in the greenroom, when still clothed in Scapin’s striped cloak, he deigned to receive, with the coldest dignity, the compliments of a Royal Highness, or some other person of high rank.  A prominent society lady has been dying of love for him the past six months; she occupies stage box Number Six—­and then off he goes.  Good riddance!

Amedee enjoys himself in his friend’s studio, where gay and witty artists come to talk.  They laugh and amuse themselves, and this Sunday resting-place is the most agreeable of the hard-working poet’s recreations.  Amedee prolongs them as long as possible, until at last he is alone with his friend; then the young men stretch themselves out upon the Turkish cushions, and they talk freely of their hopes, ambitions, and dreams for the future.

Amedee, however, keeps one secret to himself; he never has told of his love for Maria Gerard.  Upon his return from Italy the traveller inquired several times for the Gerards, sympathized politely with their misfortune, and wished to be remembered to them through Amedee.  The latter had been very reserved in his replies, and Maurice no longer broaches the subject in their conversation.  Is it through neglect?  After all, he hardly knew the ladies; still, Amedee is not sorry to talk of them no longer with his friend, and it is never without a little embarrassment and unacknowledged jealousy that he replies to Maria when she asks for news of Maurice.