"Un chef d'œuvre, cher maître."
They called the pug-nosed creature, cher maître!
"It is demented idiocy," murmured my astounded master.
At that moment entered Félicien Garbure, a down-at-heel elderly man, who had been wont to sit at Paragot's table. He was one of those parasitic personages not unknown in the Quartier, who contrived to attach themselves to the special circle of a café, and to drink as much as possible at other people's expense. His education and intelligence would have disgraced a Paris cabman, but an ironical Providence had invested him with an air of wisdom which gave to his flattery the value of profound criticism.
This sycophant greeted us with effusion. Where had we been? Why had the delightful band been dispersed? Did we know Monsieur Papillard, the great poet? Before we could reply he approached the chair.
"Cher maître, permit me to present to you my friends Monsieur Berzélius Paragot and Monsieur Asticot."
"Enchanté, Messieurs," said the great poet urbanely.
We likewise avowed our enchantment, and Paragot swore beneath his breath. The waiter—no longer Hercule, who had been dismissed for petty thievery some time before—but a new waiter who did not know Paragot—set us chairs at the end of the table far away from the great man. We ordered drinks. Paragot emptied his glass in an absent-minded manner, still under the shock of his downfall. But a few short months ago he had ruled in this place as king. Now he was patronizingly presented to the snub-nosed, idiot usurper by Félicien Garbure. His friend, Berzélius Paragot! Nom de Dieu! And he was assigned a humble place below the salt. Verily the world was upside down.
"Give me another grog," said Paragot, "a double one."
The poet read another poem. It was something about topazes and serpents and the twilight and the pink palms of a negress. More I could not gather. The company hailed it as another masterpiece. Félicien Garbure called it a supreme effort of genius. A young man beside Paragot vaunted its witchery of suggestion.