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 the concierge had sent up, and retarding his recovery by worrying as to how he was going to pay the bills.

His first venture out of doors was an excursion to the stalls along the quays, where he sold an armful of his best books for a tenth of their value.

Once he thought of looking up friends to whom he had made advances in the past, on the off-chance that their fortunes, unlike his own, had taken a turn for the better. But the suggestion was vetoed by the very pride for which he had righteously scolded so many others, when they had shown a reluctance to accept aid at his hands. After all, he had invested in their talent, and he had no talents of his own deserving subvention. Besides, the men he had helped—at least in the best cases—had not actually asked; they had simply accepted what he had guessed—they needed. Would anyone guess he needed help? Perhaps, but he was under no illusion as to the amount of help likely to be voluntarily offered. Tant pis. He had known that a day of reckoning must come.

At the night café in the Rue St. Marc he found a disconcerting welcome. The patronne, who had always regarded him as her most distinguished client, received him with open arms, but only after she had stepped back with an expression of consternation on her face and a fervently uttered, "Grand Dieu du Ciel." For a moment Paul was unnerved. He had not realized that his appearance had altered to such an extent.

For the next fifteen minutes he was engaged in answering Madame's questions. Then she went to the kitchen herself to prepare food for him. The night was not far advanced, and the regular gathering of compositors, van-drivers, thieves and fly-by-nights had not arrived. Paul had hoped to see Suzy, whose favours he had declined, but who was indebted to him for many a loan. Suzy, for all her depravity, would heartily welcome an opportunity to do him a good turn, if she