"What an extraordinary coincidence! Ah, that is the last bond between
us! You can realise my most complex moods, you can penetrate to the
most distant suburbs of my soul! Gustave, if I had been free to choose
my career, I should have become a famous man." "My poor Adolphe!
Still, prosperity is not an unmixed evil. You must seek compensation in
your wealth," murmured the poet, who began to think that one might pay
too high a price for a bed.

"Oh--er--to be sure!" said the little clerk, reminded that he was
pledged to a larger outlay than he had originally proposed. "That is to
say, I am not precisely 'wealthy.'" He saw his pocket-money during the
trip much curtailed, and rather wished that his impulse had been less
expansive.

"A snug income is no stigma, whether one derives it from Parnassus or
the Bourse," continued Tricotrin. "Hold! Who is that I see, slouching
over there? As I live, it's Pitou, the composer, whose dilemma I told
you of!"

"Another?" quavered the clerk, dismayed.

"He, Nicolas! Turn your symphonic gaze this way! 'Tis I, Gustave!"

"Ah, mon vieux!" exclaimed the young musician joyfully; "I was
wondering what your fate might be. I have only just come from the
house. Madame Dubois refused me admission; she informed me that you had
been firing Spanish novels at Gouge's head. Why Spanish? Is the Spanish
variety deadlier? So the villain has had the effrontery to turn us
out?"