It was at his evening class that I first saw Bibi la Puree as model; a little old man, smiling and ecstatics, his bright eyes half hidden under a dingy and weather-beaten top hat; his clothes were green with age; his boots were the elastic-sided ones of the last century, and under his arm was a sheaf of old umbrellas, but while his clothes spoke of misery his whole bearing had an indescribable alertness and bonhomie, "a dandy in his rags." I asked him to pose and next day he appeared at my studio and I decided to paint him for my salon. He was never punctual and his locuses were varied and original - there was an incendie in the street - he had to stop on the way to have a tooth pulled out - a friend of his had had a crise de nerfs. But who is Bibi, one will ask? In Paris student life the question was not necessary. Vagabond by profession, an habitue of the celebrated Cafe Procope, the friend of Verlaine, the king of the 1890 carnival, whose real name was Audre de Salis, whose uncle was the Abbe de Salis of the Tichbourne case celebrity; everyone knew him; free drinks were given him; students saluted him; no one was happier than he. Bibi used to say proudly: "T'etais l'ami de Verlaine et Verlaine etait mon ami," and when that sad genius was dying in a garret it was Bibi who was everything to him, who sold his autographs or his poems and when all other things failed, sold himself to a college of surgeons for 40 francs to give Verlaine the necessary food and doctor's care.

     But sometimes the Fates were unkind in our quarter. Bibi was not known and M. Julien, returning by the Boulevards, overheard an animated dialogue: "Je suis Bibi la Puree, je ne paye jamais." "Vous pouvez etre Bibi le diable," said the infuriated waiter, but you must pay your drink." This was Bibi who assured me he only drank milk and deplored Verlaine's failing for absinthe. Bibi also had an irresistible craving for other people's umbrellas. Mine disappeared. He told me one of the models had most probably taken it. "I will find her and say, 'Give me back the umbrella of Mademoiselle Mees.' " Everyday he reported on the chase; once he had vainly pursued her up the Boulevar Michel - until the subject dropped, and it was not till some months later that I heard of this strange passion of his, and that at the anniversary of Verlaine's death it was Bibi who wept the most bitterly at his grave. After the ceremony when the literary men were leaving the cemetary Bibi had disappeared and with him their fifteen umbrellas. But everyone forgave Bibi. As a model he was always amusing, always obliging. He used to say: "Tiens nons avons oublie quelque chose," and passed his fingers as a comb through his few grisly locks to make them stand out to his satisfaction. Once he climbed a high stool to open a window and fell, heels in air. Never was there such a catastrophe. I ran to him: "Are you hurt, Bibi?" "Not in the least," was the quick reply; "I often do this for exercise."

     He was fond of flowers and always had a bunch of violets to present to us at Julien's evening class. "Et la moitre pour Mdme Julian," he used to say. Once when posing at this class he left the model throne as he saw Mdme Julian come in with her mother. "Go back," shouted Marie, the bonne who for twenty-seven years had been the dragon of the atelier. But Bibi, paying no attention to Marie, presented the violets with the most courtly of bows. "Madame Julian will not be offended I trust if I offer these flowers to Madame, her mother."

     When I was ill Bibi appeared at the hotel with flowers and a medallion of St. Genevieve, the patron saint of health, purposely blessed for my recovery.

     I finished my portrait. It was hung on the line in the salon and was often surrounded by the students, who knew Bibi. I never saw him again. He died soon afterwards - alone and in misery. But his memory will long live in the Latin Quartier and let us hope that an angel has pressed down the scale for his gentle and unknown deeds.