THE DREAM CIRCEAN
I
AU “LAPIN AGILE”
PERCHED at the junction of two of the steepest little streets in
Montmartre shines the “ Lapin Agile,” a tiny window filled
with gleaming bottles, thrilled through by the light behind,
a little terrace with tables, chairs, and shrubs, and two dark
doors.
Roderic Mason came striding up the steepness of the
Rue St. Vincent, his pipe gripped hard in his jaw; for the
hill is too abrupt for lounging. On the terrace he stretched
himself, twirled round half a dozen times like a dervish,
pocketed his pipe, and went stooping through the open
doorway.
Grand old Frédéric was there, in his vast corduroys and
sou’-wester hat, a ’cello in his hand.
His trim grey beard was a shade whiter than when
Roderic had last patronised the “ Lapin,” five years before ; but
the kindly, gay, triumphant eyes were nowise dimmed by time.
He knew Roderic at a glance, and gave his left hand carelessly,
as if he had been gone but yesterday. Time ambles easily for
the owner of such an eyrie, his life content with wine and
song and simple happiness.
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