them on meeting. As soon as Garon had said them, Medallion's lanky body
followed his face, and in a moment he had the Avocat's hand in his,
swallowing it, of purpose crushing it, so that Monsieur Garon waked up
smartly and gave his visitor a pensive smile. Medallion's cheerful
nervous vitality seldom failed to inspire whom he chose to inspire with
Something of his own life and cheerfulness. In a few moments both the
Avocat and himself were smoking, and the contents of the steaming bowl
were divided between them. Medallion talked on many things. The little
old housekeeper came in, chirped a soft good-evening, flashed a small
thankful smile at Medallion, and, after renewing the bowl and lighting
two more tall candles, disappeared. Medallion began with the parish,
passed to the law, from the law to Napoleon, from Napoleon to France,
and from France to the world, drawing out from the Avocat something of
his old vivacity and fire. At last Medallion, seeing that the time was
ripe, turned his glass round musingly in his fingers before him and said:

"Benoit, Annette's husband, died to-day, Garon. You knew him.
He went singing--gone in the head, but singing as he used to do before he
married--or got drunk! Perhaps his youth came back to him when he was
going to die, just for a minute."

The Avocat's eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, and Medallion went on:

"As good singing as you want to hear. You've heard the words of the
song--the river drivers sing it:

"'What is there like to the cry of the bird
That sings in its nest in the lilac tree?
A voice the sweetest you ever have heard;
It is there, it is here, ci ci!