"Ask Janiaud," I said; I don't know."
"Oh, not at all," replied Janiaud; "no, indeed, it was not always like this! It used to be as quiet at midnight as at any other hour. But it became celebrated as a supper-place; and now it is quite the thing for the ardent spirits, with money, to come and kick up their heels here until five in the morning."
"Curious, how such customs originate," remarked the Editor. "Here we have a restaurant which is out of the way, which is the reverse of luxurious, and which, for all that, seems to be a gold mine to the proprietor. Look at him! Look at his white waistcoat and his massive watch-chain, his air of prosperity."
"How did he come to rake it in like this, Janiaud—you know everything?" I said.
The poet stroked his beard, and glanced at his empty glass. The Editor raised a bottle.
"I cannot talk on Clicquot," demurred Janiaud. "If you insist, I will take another absinthe—they will allow it, in the circumstances. Sst, Adolphe!" The waiter whisked over to us. "Monsieur pays for champagne, but I prefer absinthe. There is no law against that, hein?"
Adolphe smiled tolerantly.
"Shall we sit outside?" suggested the Editor. "What do you think? It's getting rather riotous in here, isn't it?"
So we moved on to the terrace, and waited while Janiaud prepared his poison.
"It is a coincidence that you have asked me for the history of the Bon Vieux Temps tonight," he began, after a gulp; "if you had asked for it two days earlier, the climax would have been missing. The story completed itself yesterday, and I happened to be here and saw the end.