Verlaine sometimes came to this café—Paul Verlaine; I often paid for his beer. A plain, hairy, dirty figure, seeming physically very feeble; you would not think to look at him twice except to marvel at his ugliness and disorderly appearance, unless you saw his eyes. If he looked at you, you knew you were in the presence of your better. He was worshiped by all, and they fought to pay his check, hovering about him like crows around dead carrion, waiting to snatch at anything that dropped from his lips. I was not a good student of character in those days and in no way realized his importance, but I could not help feeling his charm. One night I had a dispute with a Frenchman as to what was the meaning of courage. One of us argued that it was an admirable quality, and the other that it was vanity and stupidity—therefore, idiotic. At the height of the discussion Verlaine came in and was appealed to to decide the question. He first demanded beer and then listened carefully to one and then the other. Looking at me, he said:
“Because you are right and he is right; you are wrong and he is wrong. But _he_ believes what he says.”
To him, _truth_ was of no importance—the question was _belief_—and this seems to me to be the secret of his whole philosophy.
There is a corner in Paris where Arthur Cosslet Smith says, if you sit there long enough, you will meet everyone of importance of your day—the corner of the Café de la Paix. Here one day I was sitting, having an _apéritif_ before lunch; at a table in the corner was gathered a group of _jeunesses dorées_ and a little farther back I noticed Barbey d’Aurevilly. The young men began to discuss literature with that cocksureness that is the quality of youth the world over. Victor Hugo was still alive, and it was the fashion to “knock” him, which they proceeded to do, outrageously. Finally, one said, so the whole café could hear:
At that I _felt_ a figure rise behind me and come forward; then I saw this wonderful vision. About seventy, handsome, tall, dressed with the most exquisite care, lace at his sleeves and neck; D’Aurevilly was a count and noted duelist and distinctly of the old school. Looking as if he had stepped straight out of a book of Dumas’, he walked up to the young men. Instantly, their conversation was hushed. He did not present himself, but said: