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WAS one day telling my cousin of an adventure that happened in the forest of Fontainebleau, and I mentioned by chance the profession of my companion.

"Oh, my dear," murmured the lady, "you should have felt seriously compromised in the company of a common vagabond."

"Very true, I dare say, madam," said I, "but, in fact, I felt very much honored."

And here my adventure ended.

The friend of whom I had spoken was Habelais, the famous Parisian snake-charmer. He was no more a vagabond than my good cousin, and assuredly he was the most uncommon being conceivable. I doubt if you could have found anywhere another singular genius like Habelais. Let me say that he was no mere snake-charmer, though as such he had won his first laurels, and so he was pleased to call himself, even after he became the true prince of all jugglers.

Early in his career he mastered the secrets of legerdemain and magic. He sought out novelties; he put by the dull tricks, the worn trappings, the old methods, and grew skilled in a new order of sorceries by which the keen wits of the ingenious were confounded; he performed unheard-of marvels with incredible ease and dexterity. In time, too, he did what few idols of the people have ever done: he abandoned the stage in the midst of his triumphs, and afterward he astonished the world with only one of his mysterious entertainments—the last of his performances—his remarkable disappearance, which completely baffled his comrades as well as the public and the police.

Most Parisians, knowing little about Habelais's real personality, regarded him purely in his character as a magician; they were dazzled and amused, and so were satisfied. His friends were attached to him, however, because of his fraternal and more subtle qualities and rare gifts. In the intimacy of social intercourse he appeared at his best. He was very affable and very engaging, always an excellent companion, but a fellow of whimsical humor and infinite caprice. So much imbued was he with the spirit of gaiety, and so much a lover of the art he followed, that none of us at times could claim to be exactly himself in the presence of Habelais. Indeed, he frequently played with his friends as in days gone by he had played with his favorite reptiles, indulging in all kinds of vagaries and curious manifestations—a feature that just now may as well be more fully described.

One evening, while last in Paris, I dined with Habelais at his own apartments, where I admired again the familiar surroundings—the walls covered with seca-green leather, the elegant arches, the Moresque vases in the angles, the portraits, the buffet with its crystals and the tall ebony pedestal, on which rested the clock, much like a monk's head, capped with a pigmy-figure of Harlequin sitting astride.

We dined alone, and the repast was unexcelled. Habelais ate lightly, but, as usual, he lingered over the wines. I am sure he was never in a livelier mood; his pale round face wrinkled