“Besides,” Phil added, “Poufaille must know what is going on. I have not seen him come out, but he will tell me to-night.” So he determined to dine at Mère Michel’s, where he would have a chance of seeing Poufaille.
For a long time he had not met the copains—they had almost become strangers to him. The talk about art and the masterpieces traced with a burnt match on grimy tables no longer interested him. He felt himself out of place in the environment, but he wished to see Poufaille that very evening. To begin with, he would have the pleasure of offering his services to the poor devil, who could not be very rich, to judge from the sale at the Hôtel Drouot a few days before. Phil would find some delicate means of being useful to him. Who knows if he would ever see him again? It would be like a farewell to his own past. So Phil went to Mère Michel’s.
His past mounted up to his brain. It seemed to rise up whole and entire before him when, near the Boulevard, in a narrow street, he saw the painted canvas and fixtures deposited at the stage entrance of a circus. The damp courtyard, the frayed walls, the store-rooms of stage-properties, the theater’s insides—all that was a little of his own past.
It was himself, again, whom he elbowed in the Boulevard beside the Café des Artistes, where women with red tresses topped with feathers were drinking from little glasses with ill-shaven messieurs, showing each other photographs and programs, and signing engagements with fingers stiff with rings. Phil could hear their technical slang: Chiqué-dèche—purée-j’te fais une bleue en cinq secs! “Garçon, two absinthes, and get a move on you, bougre d’andouille!”
Strolling artists offered to do his portrait for two sous. A bohemian imitated an ocarina by swelling out his cheeks. A contortionist spread his little carpet and dislocated himself on the sidewalk.
“Do you like my trade?” he said to Phil, who stood looking at him. “If you do, I’ll hire you!”
“What a world it is, all the same! And to think that once I loved it all,” Phil thought, as he turned away.
Farther on there was a restaurant still celebrated for the reason that, long ago, my Lord l’Arsouille had supped there with Cora Pearl. As Phil passed in front of it, he saw the staircase decorated with green palms, and he thought he recognized Helia going up,—it was her hat and cloak,—and, lifting his eyes, Phil saw, at the window above, the profile of the Duke of Morgania. Phil lowered his head and went his way pensively, leaving behind him the restaurant full of fragrance and lights, wherein the beautiful butterflies of the night were coming to burn their wings.
To escape from these mournful visions, Phil called up the remembrance of Ethel. The remainder of his way he traversed without noticing the distance. He had already passed the Seine and gone under the vault of the Institut, following a quiet old street. A moment later he was at Mère Michel’s. A volley of enthusiastic cries welcomed him. Phil asked himself if he were not the plaything of a dream.
“Vive Phil! Hurrah for Phil! Bravo, Phil! A ban for Phil!”