while the other was ready to pierce the ground. A torrent of light hair
escaped from under the enormous brim of his well-worn felt-hat. He wore
a hazel-coloured overcoat with a large cape, worn thread-bare and rough
as a grater; from its yawning pockets peeped bundles of manuscripts and
pamphlets. The enjoyment of his sour-crout, which he devoured with
numerous and audible marks of approbation, rendered him heedless of the
scrutiny to which he was subjected, but did not prevent him from
continuing to read an old book open before him, in which he made
marginal notes from time to time with a pencil that he carried behind
his ear.

"Hullo!" cried Schaunard suddenly, making his glass ring with his knife,
"my stew!"

"Sir," said the girl, running up plate in hand, "there is none left,
here is the last, and this gentleman has ordered it." Therewith she
deposited the dish before the man with the books.

"The deuce!" cried Schaunard. There was such an air of melancholy
disappointment in his ejaculation, that the possessor of the books was
moved to the soul by it. He broke down the pile of old works which
formed a barrier between him and Schaunard, and putting the dish in the
centre of the table, said, in his sweetest tones:

"Might I be so bold as to beg you, sir, to share this with me?"

"Sir," replied the artist, "I could not think of depriving you of it."

"Then will you deprive me of the pleasure of being agreeable to you?"