reason, the drinks could not be good, because there are too many of
them. The last thing one finds at these coffee-houses is coffee. It is
delicious, divine, in those little Oriental shops where it is made to
order for each drinker in a special little pot. As to syrups, how many
are there in Paris? In what inconceivable place can they keep the jars
containing the fruit juices needed to make them? A few real ladies,
rich, well-born, good housekeepers, not reduced to slavery by the great
shops, who do not rouge or paint their cheeks, still know how to make in
their own homes good syrups from the fruit of their gardens and their
vineyards. But they naturally do not give them away or sell them to the
keepers of cafés, but keep them to gladden their flaxen-haired children.

Such as it is,--with its failings and its vices, even a full century
after the fame of Procope,--the café, which we cannot drive out of our
memories, has been the asylum and the refuge of many charming spirits.
The old Tabourey, who, after having been illustrious, now has a sort of
half popularity and a pewter bar, formerly heard the captivating
conversations of Barbey and of Aurevilly, who were rivals in the noblest
salons, and who sometimes preferred to converse seated before a marble
table in a hall from which one could see the foliage and the flowers of
the Luxembourg. Baudelaire also talked there, with his clear caressing
voice dropping diamonds and precious stones, like the princess of the
fairy tale, from beautiful red, somewhat thick lips.

A problem with no possible solution holds in check the writers and the
artists of Paris. When one has worked hard all day it is pleasant to
take a seat, during the short stroll that precedes the dinner, to meet
one's comrades and talk with them of everything but politics. The only
favorable place for these necessary accidental meetings is the café; but
is the game worth the candle, or, to speak more exactly, the blinding