•  ••••••

Some  days  later  I  am  sitting  with  my  mys-
terious friend,  with  our  glasses  of  absinthe,  on
the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  Versailles,  when  a
fellow  in  workman's  clothes,  with  a  malicious
aspect,  suddenly  stops  before  the  cafe,  then
rushes  through  the  customers,  and  bawls  at  my
friend  in  his  loudest  voice :  "  At  last  I  have
you,  you  sharper,  who  fleeced  me!  What  is  the
meaning  of  it?  First  of  all,  you  order  a  cross
for  thirty  francs,  and  then  you  disapjjear.  Sou
of  a  dog!  Do  you  think  a  cross  like  that  makes
itself?  "

He  continued  to  rage.  The  cafe  waiters  vainly
attempted  to  remove  him ;  he  threatened  to  fetch
the  police,  while  the  unfortunate  accused,  mo-
tionless, dumb,  and  prostrate,  like  a  condemned


Pxarg'atory  55

man,  remained  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  a  circle
of  artists  who  all  knew  him  more  or  less.  When
the  commotion  was  over,  I  asked  him  with  a  be-
wildered mind,  as  if  I  had  witnessed  a  witches'
sabbath:  "  What  cross  worth  thirty  francs?  I
don't  understand  a  word  of  the  business?  "

"  It  was  a  model  of  Joan  of  Arc's  cross  which
I  was  going  to  use  for  my  picture  of  the  crucified
woman."

"  He  certainly  was  a  devil,  that  workman."

After  a  pause,  I  continue :  "  It  is  odd,  but
one  does  not  play  unpunished  either  with  the
Cross  or  with  Joan  of  Arc."

"  You  believe  in  them?  "

"  I  don't  know ! — But  the  thirty  pieces  of
silver ! "

"  Enough !  Enough !  "  he  exclaims  in  a  tone
of  vexation.
