BOUGUEREAU AT WORK
“After the old man’s death,” my friend continued, “Pochard drifted from bad to worse, and finally out of the Quarter, somewhere into misery on the other side of the Seine. No one heard of him for a few years, until he was again recognized as being the same Pochard returned again to the Quarter. He was hobbling about on crutches just as you see him there. And now, do you know what he does? Get up from where you are sitting,” said Lachaume, “and look into the back kitchen. Is he not standing there by the door—they are handing him a small bundle?”
“Yes,” said I, “something wrapped in newspaper.”
“Do you know what is in it?—the carcass of the chicken you have just finished, and which the garçon carried away. Pochard
saw you eating it half an hour ago as he passed. It was for that he was waiting.”
“To eat?” I asked.
“No, to sell,” Lachaume replied, “together with the other bones he is able to collect—for soup in some poorest resort down by the river, where the boatmen and the gamins go. The few sous he gets will buy Pochard a big glass, a lump of sugar, and a spoon; into the goblet, in some equally dirty ‘boîte,’ they will pour him out his green treasure of absinthe. Then Pochard will forget the day—perhaps he will dream of the Austrian Baron—and try and forget Camille Leroux. Poor devil!”
GEROME