Also, you can dine at the Bel Avenir still, if
sentiment pulls you that way."
"I shall certainly dine there," averred Pitou. "And I shall buy a house
for my parents, with a peacock and some deer on the lawn. At the same
time, a triumph is not without its pathos. I see my return to the Bel
Avenir, the old affections in my heart, the old greetings on my lips--
and I see the fellows constrained and formal in my presence. I see
madame apologising for the cuisine, instead of reminding me that my
credit is exhausted, and the waiter polishing my glass, instead of
indicating the cheapest item on the menu. Such changes hurt!" He was
much moved. "A fortune is not everything," he sighed, forgetting that
his pockets were as empty as his stomach. "Poverty yielded joys which I
no longer know."
The poet embraced him with emotion. "I rejoice to find that Fame has
not spoilt your nature," he cried; and he, too, forgot the empty
pockets, and that the contract from La Coupole had yet to come. "Yes,
we had hard times together, you and I, and I am still a nobody, but we
shall be chums as long as we live. I feel that you can unbosom yourself
to me, the poor bohemian, more freely than to any Immortal with whom
you hobnob in scenes of splendour."
"Oh indeed, indeed!" assented Pitou, weeping. "You are as dear to me
now as in the days of our struggles; I should curse my affluence if it
made you doubt that! Good-night, my brother; God bless you.
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