"Ah, is that how the wind blows--the fellow has not paid his rent?"
said Tricotrin. "How disgraceful of him, to be sure! Fortunately
Sanquereau lives in the next house."

He pulled the bell there forthwith, and the peal had scarcely sounded
when Sanquereau rushed to the door, crying, "Welcome, my Beautiful!"

"Mon Dieu, what worthless acquaintances I possess!" moaned the unhappy
poet. "Since you are expecting your Beautiful I need not go into
details."

"What on earth did you want?" muttered Sanquereau, crestfallen.

"I came to tell you the latest Stop Press news--Goujaud's landlord has
turned him out and I have no bed to lie on. Au revoir!"

After another apostrophe to the heavens, "That inane moon, which makes
no response, is beginning to get on my nerves," he soliloquised. "Let
me see now! There is certainly master Criqueboeuf, but it is a long
journey to the quartier Latin, and when I get there his social
engagements may annoy me as keenly as Sanquereau's. It appears to me I
am likely to try the open-air cure to-night. In the meanwhile I may as
well find Miranda a seat and think things over."

Accordingly he bent his steps to the place Dancourt, and having
deposited the incubus beside him, stretched his limbs on a bench
beneath a tree. His attitude, and his luxuriant locks, to say nothing
of his melancholy aspect, rendered him a noticeable figure in the
little square, and monsieur Petitpas, from Bordeaux, under the awning
of the cafe opposite, stood regarding him with enthusiasm.