I'm a plain man, Mr. Feverel. Above board with me, and you'll find me handsome.

I'm just doing this to kill time.

In the cafés of the Boule Miche, where the decadent movements are hatched and the fledgling Verlaines come to drown their sorrows in vermouth, you may see the lacklustre visages and tumbled hair of diabolical poets and the world-weary figures of end-of-the-century youngsters pledging their mistresses in American grog.

Their encounter was a matter of chance.