CHAPTER XXV.
"The Gods are just and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us." It was full summer before I met Oscar again; he had come back to Paris and taken up his old quarters in the mean little hotel in the Rue des Beaux Arts.

He lunched and dined with me as usual.

His talk was as humorous and charming as ever, and he was just as engaging a companion.
For the first time, however, he complained of his health: "I ate some mussels and oysters in Italy, and they must have poisoned me; for I have come out in great red blotches all over my arms and chest and back, and I don't feel well." "Have you consulted a doctor ?" "Oh, yes, but doctors are no good: they all advise you differently; the best of it is they all listen to you with an air of intense interest when you are talking about yourself--which is an excellent tonic." "They sometimes tell one what's the matter; give a name and significance to the unknown," I interjected.
"They bore me by forbidding me to smoke and drink.

They are worse than M----, who grudged me his wine." "What do you mean ?" I asked in wonder.
"A tragi-comic history, Frank.

You were so right about M---- and I was mistaken in him.