Argosy, Vol. 122, No. 1 — page 33: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

told of his early tribulations. I doubt whether in these days he would have spoken so/ gaily of his experiences, but since both body and pocket are to-day fortified against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, he appears to view his years of struggle througk rosy spectacles. Plump, and carefully dressed, according to Parisian idea, he is an advertisement for prosperity. Money jingles in his pocket, and living in the comfortable present, he can shed a tear over the past and not lose a night’s rest thereby. All this has come to pass within the last year during which I have been away. My first action on returning to Paris was to look for him. I found him in his old -haunts. He is a confirmed Montparnassian now, though for a time he did dwell on the heights of Montmartre, and only a well planted blast of the most potent explosive could drive him from Paris; that Paris whose histories are part and parcel of his youth and approaching middle age. We were sitting on the terrace of the Cafe d’Harcourt watching the life which flows up and down that main stream of the Latin Quartier, the Boul’ Mich’. ‘Same old boulevard, same old gentle- men going to play croquet in the Gardens, same old maids with dogs, same old ex- CY, L Robert W. Sneddon HAVE at various times related certain pasages in the life of my friend Charlot, erstwhile poet, now writer of popular songs, but there still remains much to be princesses from the laundries, the factories and the stores, same types, same every- thing,” I commented, sniffing the spring aix- with a feeling of infinite satisfaction. ‘Same everything but the prices—Oh, my precious beer!” Charlot replied. “That doesn’t seem to bother you much,” I told him, counting the absorbent mats which told of many glasses consumed. ‘Much you should worry, with a bank ac- count to your credit. JI have seen your name, as author of two separate revues, decorating the advertising kiosks.”’ ‘“ Pooh!” he said airily. “ Pot-boilers. I am still working on my poems. Heavens! The taste of the public is deplorable. Still, I suppose I should be the last to bemoan it. Only, that does not prevent me having ideals. It is strange, though,” he added with a faraway look, ‘“ strange that inspira- tion lurks much less in 9 dinner at twenty- five francs than it used to in a meal at one franc fifty. Nowadays when I have dined for an hour or so, I find I can not sit down and write so feelingly on twilight hours of melancholy.” ‘“ Changed days for you, you rascal. You look for all the world like a bloated pawn- broker.”’ “Don’t!” he begged. ‘‘ Many’s the day I cursed the house of ‘my aunt’ because I had nothing to pawn with the old lady. You may believe it or not, but I have trembled on the threshold of death several times. You remember Balzac’s poet Rus 23. cComiclbooks.com