Phil examined the man who seemed to be carrying the weight of a world.
His skull was nearly bald, his forehead bulging out, his hair about his ears, while his beard half hid a grimace; his eye was alert and sagacious.
“He does resemble him, though,” Phil observed.
“Resembles whom?” said Poufaille.
“Socrates the ancient.”
“So there was another?” Poufaille asked.
When his meal was over, Socrate arose, sad-mannered and dignified.
“He’s going over to the Café des Deux Magots,” said Poufaille. “Let’s go too—you’ll see him nearer.”
The Deux Magots was the rendezvous of different bands—the Band of Cherche-Midi (look out for twelve o’clock!), made up of rich Americans playing Bohemia and frequenting the Deux Magots in appropriate costume; the band of the Red-headed Goat, artists who despised art and occupied themselves with socialism; and there were others besides.
No one went to the Deux Magots for its coffee—they went there for Socrate and Caracal. There could be heard Socrate, musician, painter, and poet, speaking of high art; the new men drank in his words.