The two elderly gentlemen opposite, evidently as bewildered as
Paul himself, taking their cue from the Stranger, drained their
glasses. Still following the Stranger's lead, leant each across the
table and shook him warmly by the hand.
"I beg pardon," said the Poet, "but really I am afraid I must have
been asleep. Would it sound rude to you"--he addressed himself to
the Stranger: the faces of the elderly gentlemen opposite did not
suggest their being of much assistance to him--"if I asked you where
I was?"
Again there flickered across the Stranger's face the smile that was
felt rather than seen. "You are in a private room of the Cafe
Pretali," he answered. "We are met this evening to celebrate your
recent elevation into the company of the Immortals."
"Oh," said the Poet, "thank you."
"The Academy," continued the Stranger, "is always a little late in
these affairs. Myself, I could have wished your election had taken
place ten years ago, when all France--all France that counts, that
is--was talking of you. At fifty-three"--the Stranger touched
lightly with his fingers the Poet's fat hand--"one does not write as
when the sap was running up, instead of down."
Slowly, memory of the dingy cafe in the Rue St. Louis, of the strange
happening that took place there that night when he was young, crept
back into the Poet's brain.
"Would you mind," said the Poet, "would it be troubling you too much
to tell me something of what has occurred to me?"
"Not in the least," responded the agreeable Stranger.
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