When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. “I am afraid,” said he, “that Monsieur will think me altogether a beggar; but I have another demand to make upon him.” I began to hate him on the spot. “We play again tonight,” he went on. “Of course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from Monsieur and his friends, who have been already so liberal. But our programme of tonight is something truly creditable; and I cling to the idea that Monsieur will honour us with his presence.” And then, with a shrug and a smile: “Monsieur understands⁠—the vanity of an artist!” Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is the kind of thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and the vanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!

But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearly two years since I saw him first, and indeed I hope I may see him often again. Here is his first programme, as I found it on the breakfast-table, and have kept it ever since as a relic of bright days: