He never read a theatrical poster now, and deliberately forgot
his favorite poets for fear of renewing his pain.




XII

This new life pleased him; it slipped by with a soothing monotony,
and he found it healthful and to his taste. One evening, as he
was coming downstairs at his old tutor's, a stout man offered
him, with a sweep of the arm, the bill of fare advertising a
neighbouring cook-shop; he carried a huge bundle of them under
his left arm. Then stopping abruptly:

"_Per Bacco!_" cried the fellow; "it is my old pupil. Tall and
straight as a young poplar, here stands Monsieur Jean Servien!"

It was no other than the Marquis Tudesco. His red waistcoat was
gone; instead he wore a sort of sleeved vest of coarse ticking,
but his shining face, with the little round eyes and hooked nose,
still wore the same look of merry, mischievous alertness that
was so like an old parrot's.

Jean was surprised to see him, and not ill-pleased after all.
He greeted him affectionately and asked what he was doing now.

"Behold!" replied the Marquis, "my business is to distribute
in the streets these advertisements of a local poisoner, and