Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le RouÉ—who could fail to admire him for the constant, anxious endeavours he makes, the innumerable secret devices he employs to appear juvenile and sprightly! That his figure may be elegant, he wears stays. That the crow’s feet may not be conspicuous he (or rather his valet) covers them over with a subtle, greasy preparation. That his moustache may not droop, he has it waxed to the extremest degree of rigidity. And that people may not say: “Old le RouÉ is a wreck” and “Old le RouÉ is played out,” he goes about the Amazing City—here, there and everywhere—with a glass in his eye and a flower in his button-hole, like the gayest of young worldlings.

However, it has to be recorded that despite all his endeavours, despite all his artifices, M. le RouÉ remains a shaky, shrunken old fellow, with scanty white hair, a tired, pallid face and a thin, feeble voice. Once upon a time—say forty years ago—he was deemed one of the most brilliant, the most irresistible ornaments of le Tout Paris; but to-day—forty years after—he has attained that tragic period in the life of a vain, superannuated viveur, when no one, except his valet, is permitted to see him until two o’clock in the afternoon; and thus no one, save that faithful attendant, could give us a picture of M. le RouÉ when, after the curtains have been drawn and daylight has been let into the room, the old gentleman is served with his cup of chocolate and morsel of dry toast.

Still, if we cannot witness his awakening, we may assuredly assume that M. le RouÉ is not a pleasant spectacle in the morning. And it is equally safe to suppose that his temper is detestable, his language deplorable, when the valet shaves his wan cheek, and fastens his stays, and helps him into his heavy fur coat; and thus, in a word, turns him into the impeccable if rickety old beau who lunches every day on the stroke of two o’clock in SucrÉ’s white-and-gold restaurant.

“Monsieur se porte bien?” inquires the maÎtre d’hÔtel, respectfully handing him the menu.

“Pas mal, pas mal,” replies M. le RouÉ, in his thin, feeble voice. And although the old gentleman has been advised to keep strictly to a diet of plain foods and Vichy water, both the dishes and the wines that he orders are elaborate and rich.

Once again I exclaim: “Wonderful, O most wonderful M. le RouÉ,” and once again I demand: “Who could fail to admire him?”

He declines to belong to the past, he refuses to go into retirement; so long as he can stand up in his stays he is heroically determined to lead the life of a viveur, a rake. See him, here in SucrÉ’s restaurant, revelling over his lobster; behold him kissing his trembling, white hand to the lady book-keeper, a handsome young woman with sparkling diamond earrings; and hear him, moreover, entertaining Joseph, the maÎtre d’hÔtel, with an account of the lively supper-party he presided over last night, at which Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de Millefleurs (beautiful, brilliant ornaments of the demi-monde) were present, and Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, of the Casino de Paris, performed her latest “eccentric” dance.

All this from a gentleman half-way through the seventies! All this from a shaky, shrunken old fellow who ought, at the present moment, to be taking a careful constitutional in the Parc Monceau on the arm of some mild, elderly female relative—instead of rejoicing over lobster and ChÂteau-Yquem in SucrÉ’s white-and-gold restaurant.

“Monsieur is extraordinary,” says the maÎtre d’hÔtel, by way of flattery.

“Monsieur is a monster,” says the handsome lady book-keeper, shaking her diamond earrings.

And old le RouÉ the “Extraordinary,” old le RouÉ “the Monster,” smiles, winks a dim eye and laughs. But it has to be stated that his smile is a leer and that his laugh is a cackle.

From SucrÉ’s restaurant M. le RouÉ proceeds slowly, leaning heavily on his walking-stick, to a quiet, comfortable cafÉ, where he meets another heroic old rake—the Marquis de MÔ.

But there is this striking difference between the two: whereas old le RouÉ is delicately made, frail, shrunken, old de MÔ is enormous, apoplectic, with flowing white whiskers, a round, bumpy bald head, a fiery complexion and a huge gouty foot which is ever encased in a wonderful elastic shoe. Le RouÉ and de MÔ rejoiced extravagantly together in the latter brilliant days of the Second Empire. And to-day, in the year of 1912, they love to recall their past conquests, duels, follies, and never tire of abusing the Republican rÉgime.

“What a Government, what an age!” complains le RouÉ.

“Abominable—odious—sinister,” declares de MÔ.

Also, our superannuated viveurs recall affectionate memories of a dear, mutual friend, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, who died last year, of a vague illness, shortly after he had riotously celebrated his seventieth birthday. The truth was, old de Barsac could not keep pace with old le RouÉ and old de MÔ. His face became leaden in colour and his speech rambling and incoherent. And one night, he suddenly passed away in his sleep from exhaustion.

“Ce pauvre cher Robert!” exclaims le RouÉ sadly. “Ce pauvre cher Robert!” sighs de MÔ.

Then there is another old friend, still living, of whom le RouÉ and de MÔ speak affectionately as they sit together in their corner of the quiet, comfortable cafÉ.

She is “Madeline”—who, once upon a time, was the “star” actress at the VariÉtÉs theatre. In truth, Marguerite de PrÈsles (as she figured on the bills) was something of a queen: the queen of the half-world. The newspapers of that period, in alluding to her wit, beauty and charm, called her the “exquisite Madeline”; the “adorable Madeline”; the “incomparable” Madeline de PrÈsles. Le RouÉ and de MÔ worshipped at her shrine. And to-day—forty years after—they often visit her at Pichon’s gaudy night restaurant: where the “adorable” VariÉtÉs actress of years ago makes constant rounds of the place—with tinselled boxes of chocolates and a basket of flowers!

Yes; “Madeline” sells chocolates and flowers chez Pichon! And the gold hair has turned white and the slim figure has swollen, and the once pretty, bejewelled little hands have become knotted and coarse; and the old lady herself—the former radiant “star” of the VariÉtÉs—lives in a sombre hÔtel meublÉ on the outskirts of Paris, where she passes most of the day in making up bouquets and button-holes for the painted, rackety company that assembles nightly at Pichon’s.

Thus some romance is left in old le RouÉ and old de MÔ. They still seek out “Madeline.” They make her presents on New Year’s Day; nor do they ever fail to remember her birthday. Once they offered her an annuity—but whilst expressing her thanks and declaring herself “touched,” she assured her old admirers that she was content with the income she derived from her speculations in flowers and chocolates: although (so she added) she held but a scornful opinion of the modern young worldlings—the young worldlings of the “odious,” “sinister” Republic—who were her customers chez Pichon. And so, attached, by force of memories and by reason of their long, constant gallantry, so attached is “Madeline” to old le RouÉ, and old de MÔ, that when those two valiant old rakes are seized with rheumatism or gout, and are obliged most unwillingly and angrily to lie up, she pays them daily visits; and refreshes and embellishes their rooms with her flowers; and reminds them vivaciously and wittily of the epoch—the wonderful epoch—when all three of them were gay, brilliant ornaments of the Amazing City....

And now, night-time.

Behold M. le RouÉ dining royally, and haunting the coulisses of the Opera, and playing baccarat, with trembling hands, in the Cercle DorÉ, and entertaining (as we have already recorded) Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville and Marguerite de Millefleurs, and the eccentric Mademoiselle Pauline Boum, to supper in a gilded, bemirrored cabinet particulier.

All this he does long after the innumerable electric advertising devices (Fontain’s Perfumes—CarrÉ’s Gloves—Cherry Brandy of the Maison Joyeux et Fils) have begun to blink and dance on the boulevards; and long after M. le RouÉ, with his five and seventy years, should have been tucked up in bed—his old brain at rest and his old head enveloped in a night-cap.

But M. le RouÉ declines to return home, M. le RouÉ refuses to close his dim eyes, until he has visited one of those modern rackety “American” bars—the “High Life,” for instance—where the young worldlings of to-day sit upon high stools, and absorb cocktails, crÈme de menthe and icy “sherry-cobblers.” And it is wonderful to witness frail, shaky M. le RouÉ climb up on to his stool; and the spectacle becomes still more wonderful when apoplectic, gouty old de MÔ laboriously follows his example.

Thus M. le RouÉ goes to the “High Life,” goes here, there and everywhere, like the gayest and most adventurous of young worldlings. And wherever he goes, the waiters and attendants exclaim: “Monsieur is astonishing!” and “Monsieur is extraordinary!” and their flattery pleases the old gentleman.

“Pas mal, pas mal,” he replies in his thin, feeble voice, and with his leer.

However, there come times when M. le RouÉ is particularly shaky and shrunken, when he looks peculiarly superannuated and frail; and at these times he resents the obsequious compliments of the waiters.

“No, no,” he cries shrilly. “I am a very old man, and I am feeling very weak and very ill.” After which confession, he buries his head in his trembling, white hands, and mutters to himself, strangely, beneath his breath.

The waiters then look at him curiously. And old de MÔ protests: “What nonsense, mon ami; what folly, mon vieux. There is nothing the matter with you. You are perfectly well.”

But old de MÔ’s expression is nevertheless anxious.

Is he about to lose his last remaining companion of years ago? Is he shortly to sit in that corner of the quiet, comfortable cafÉ—alone?

He cannot but acknowledge to himself that in old le RouÉ’s face there is the same leaden colour and in old le RouÉ’s speech the same incoherency that manifested themselves in their mutual dear friend and contemporary, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, a short while before he vaguely passed away.