One evening of this summer a trivial incident showed me that he was sinking deeper in the mud-honey of life.
A new play was about to be given at the Français and because he expressed a wish to see it I bought a couple of tickets. We went in and he made me change places with him in order to be able to talk to me; he was growing nearly deaf in the bad ear. After the first act we went outside to smoke a cigarette.
"It's stupid," Oscar began, "fancy us two going in there to listen to what that foolish Frenchman says about love; he knows nothing about it; either of us could write much better on the theme. Let's walk up and down here under the columns and talk."
The people began to go into the theatre again and, as they were disappearing, I said:
"It seems rather a pity to waste our tickets; so many wish to see the play."
"We shall find someone to give them to," he said indifferently, stopping by one of the pillars.
At that very moment as if under his hand appeared a boy of about fifteen or sixteen, one of the gutter-snipe of Paris. To my amazement, he said:
"Bon soir, Monsieur Wilde."
Oscar turned to him smiling.