It was with great astonishment combined with a sense of misfortune that I discovered the other day in a garret off the King's road in Chelsea a poor hack formerly of my acquaintance, who in his endeavour to keep body and soul together had formerly been distinguished or rather ridiculous among journalists by his excursions into every conceivable subject and his preparedness to write any sort of books that a publisher might order of him.

When I found him after these many years he was lying in the last stages of some disease the name of which I forget but which anyhow was mortal; and it was the character in the disease which most affected him—to its scientific appellation he was indifferent.

He confessed to me that he had long had it on his conscience that in a work of his now long forgotten he had promised the reader to tell a certain story, and that this promise had never been fulfilled.

"It is in the beginning of the book," he whispered feebly as his dying eyes were turned towards the four chimneys of the electrical works, "that I promised to tell the story—nay, two stories; I promised to tell the story of The Hungry Student, and also the story of the Brigand of Radicofani. Both these stories weigh heavily upon my conscience. I have promised," he continued in a nervous manner which was tragically affecting, "and I have not redeemed my promise. Readers of mine may have died, still wondering what the truth may be. I beg you, therefore, to take this manuscript" (and he motioned with his wasted hand to some sheets of paper by the side of his bed) "and to give it to the world. At once," he said with the haste and fever of a dying man, "to-morrow you shall come and I will give you the second manuscript concerning the Brigand of Radicofani." ("Both," he moaned, "I took from the writings of others.") "And then I can die in peace."

I took the manuscript and left him, and to fulfil his last wishes I publish it here.

* * * * * *

A student in the University of Paris had the misfortune to be wholly deprived of money in any form, and such credit as he had once enjoyed was also entirely exhausted. It was now thirty-six hours since he had eaten any memorable meal, and during that long period of time he had tasted no more than one roasted potato, a pennyworth of chestnuts, a cup of coffee, and a little bread which he had kept in his pocket from the day before yesterday, and which was therefore of a hard and ungracious sort. Even that had been consumed in the small hours of the morning, and he sat upon a stone bench in the evening of the day about fifty yards from the OdÉon Theatre, carefully considering what course he should pursue, and determining, if it were necessary, to thieve; for hunger had got him where hunger gets us all—which is not, as too many assert, in the stomach, but in the throat and palate and brain.

As he there sat he thought of delicious things; not of a mere filling, but of rare matters. He had longings. He remembered that beans, green beans, are better crisp than soft; and he thought of irrecoverable aubergines, and of what an onion was when it was well fried, and of larded chickens, and of great Touranian pears, and of the kind of wine called Chinon; he thought of all these things. But there is this quality about hunger, that the imagination does not satisfy it in any degree at all, but stimulates it only, and he was tortured as he sat upon that bench. Remember that he had not any money at all. He even recalled as he there sat the excellent taste of fresh bread and chocolate, and he was about to get up and walk off the memory of such things when a confused and growing rumour coming up the steep street round the corner broke upon him. It was the noise of many young men. It was almost military in its character, though it had no precision, for one felt in it the advance of numbers. It swelled with every moment, and at last there swung round the corner and up towards his bench a considerable body of students who were walking rapidly, excitedly, and happily, gesticulating freely and telling each other good news, while a very powerful and loud-voiced young man led them on. He could hear snatches of what was said by this company. One was crying: "It is surely the best cooking in the world!" Another, "I care nothing for the cooking, but what wine!" Two others were eagerly disputing whether the lark or the thrush were the better bird, and one was hoping that there would be a chaudfroid of nightingales. Some few sang songs, others in a sort of contented silence went forward eagerly; all evidently had before them some great goal.

As the Herd swept by him a lean young man with black hair just stooped in passing the Hungry Student and whispered: "Would you like to eat to-night?" He whispered back "Yes." "Then," said the first, whose eyes burned like coals, "up you get and follow, and hold your tongue until you learn the tricks of the rest."

So the Hungry Student rose up at once and went forward, mingling with the rest; and still their robust leader plunged through the streets before them like a captain bringing on a young army of saviours into an oppressed land. Now and then this captain would turn round and walk backward like a bandmaster or a drum major, shouting out good news of food to come and of the wine that has been pressed in Paradise.

So they went until they came to the Boulevard, which they crossed, one of them fighting with a policeman on the way. The band plunged into the narrower streets, and came at last to a little open square where was a restaurant with a balcony upon the first floor, and upon that balcony an awning. The name written above the restaurant was this: "The Widow Bertrand—a house founded in 1837." They all trooped in.

Upon the balcony a table was spread; there were other tables in the room with which the balcony communicated. At these some few and rather diffident guests had sat down; but the large table was reserved for the Herd. They took their places noisily, and falling upon a few little sardines and one or two stale strips of sausage they began loudly exclaiming upon every side at the excellence of the fare.

The Hungry Student said nothing, though he wondered much, but seizing an enormous piece of bread he ate it all up with the rapidity of a storm, and heard round him as he did so ceaseless exclamations of enthusiastic surprise. The wine was very thin and sour—but the wine of students is always so. What astonished him was to see a curly-headed fellow, very Northern in type, suddenly jump up and shout, so that all the street below could hear—

"Upon my word this is amazing! Send for Gaston!"

Gaston, a very weary waiter, came.

"Gaston," said the Northerner, "I really must know where the Widow gets this wine!"

The whole chorus of them shouted together: "Yes, Gaston, you must tell us where she gets this wine!"

Gaston murmured something which the Hungry Student did not hear.

"Oh, do not be afraid," shouted the Northerner, "we will not give the secret away. But what wine!" he added, turning round to his companions, who applauded with their hands. "We will get it through the Widow. She shall provide it to us. A wine like this is not to be missed." And he took the miserable stuff and sipped it slowly from his glass, cocking one eye up wisely towards the ceiling like a knowing fellow.

There followed bad soup, bad fish, bad meat, bad vegetables, and bad roast. But the Hungry Student was not particular, and he fed. Lord! how heartily he fed! He fed so heartily that he got into that mood when a man thinks he will never be hungry again. He ate great quantities of cheese, which alone of all the courses was served them with some liberality. He drank their coffee, and the whole host rose to go. He was still in a profound mystery.

An elderly woman, whose face betrayed keen avarice overspread with conventional courtesy, bade them good-night as they left her establishment. They cheered her, and the leader of the band kissed her warmly upon both cheeks. Then they went out, turned into the Rue Cujas, and quite suddenly their enthusiasm wholly disappeared, and a council of war was summoned. The powerful man, the leader, stood in their midst, gave the recommendation and took counsel with his peers.

"It is the last time!" he said grimly.

"Do you mean," said the dark-haired student who had first whispered to the Hungry Student as he passed, before the meal, "do you mean the Widow will not receive us again?"

"You are right," said the leader, in a solemn tone. "The bargain was for five nights; she has extended it to six. But it seems"—bitterly—"that we have done our work too well. There is no need of a seventh. Only yesterday the business was bought by a very foolish fellow from Auxerre."

"That," said a short fat young man, who had not yet spoken, "accounts for the intolerable wine."

The leader shrugged his shoulders, and said gloomily: "Friend, it was the same old wine, but from the bottom of the barrel."

"Then there is no meal for to-morrow," said a fourth man, anxiously, a red-headed, vague-eyed man who had gone in for Anarchism the year before, but was at that particular moment a Symbolist.

"Well," said the leader, "there is a meal for to-morrow. But the conditions are a little hard."

"Where is it to be? What is the rendezvous? What are those conditions?" cried several voices.

The strong leader obtained silence, and said: "I can tell you at once; Berteaux wants to sell his place by private treaty next week, and he will take us from to-morrow."

"For how many days?" broke in a silent man who had not yet spoken.

"A full week," said the leader.

"Well, that's good enough," said the dark man sullenly.

"Yes, but the point is," said the leader, "there is another offer: the new railway station wants to start a meal at a fixed price."

"It will be better cooking," said the red-haired Symbolist doubtfully.

"You are right," answered the leader, a little wearily, "but it is one of their conditions that one should eat at the absurd hour of half-past five, and hurry through the meal exclaiming all the while chance things about the express to Toulouse, and noting the rapidity of the service."

"I will never do that!" said the red-headed man firmly, amid murmurs of approval. "If I must eat their deathly stuff I will eat it, but I will not be hurried into the bargain; and half-past five is the hour for poisons, not for food. Absinthe is mine."

"No, Berteaux is the man," said the leader with a sigh. He put it to the vote, as is the fashion with the French. There was a large majority for Berteaux.

Next day that same enthusiastic whirl of youth went through other streets of the learned centre of Europe, their lips vivacious, their eyes aflame, to give Berteaux's business a selling value, and themselves to have food for nothing.

In this way was the Hungry Student filled.

* * * * * *

Next day, having sent in this manuscript that you have read, I called upon my poor friend to receive the Brigand of Radicofani; but you may imagine how shocked I was to hear that he was dead.