But I’m driving you forth, and forever and aye,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold.”
So I kicked them out with a scornful roar;
Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door;
Quietly there they spoke once more:
“The tale is not all told.
It’s au revoir, but it’s not good-by;
We’re yours, old chap, till the day you die;
Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you’ll never defy
Hunger and Thirst and Cold.”
Hurrah! The crisis in my financial career is over. Once more I have weathered the storm, and never did money jingle so sweetly in my pocket. It was MacBean who delivered me. He arrived at the door of my garret this morning, with a broad grin of pleasure on his face.
“Here,” said he; “I’ve sold some of your rubbish. They’ll take more too, of the same sort.”
With that he handed me three crisp notes. For a moment I thought that he was paying the money out of his own pocket, as he knew I was desperately hard up; but he showed me the letter enclosing the cheque he had cashed for me.
So we sought the Grand Boulevard, and I had a Pernod, which rose to my head in delicious waves of joy. I talked ecstatic nonsense, and seemed to walk like a god in clouds of gold. We dined on frogs’ legs and Vouvray, and then went to see the Revue at the Marigny. A very merry evening.
Such is the life of Bohemia, up and down, fast and feast; its very uncertainty its charm.
Here is my latest ballad, another attempt to express the sentiment of actuality:
