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Updated: May 4, 2025
One would think you had seen the antithesis Vagot, the success, long and lean and yellow, the unhappiest-looking man you ever saw." "Ah, but you must not say that!" cried Max unexpectedly. "I told you it was not my theory. To me success is life, failure is death! This is but a reflected impression of yours an impression of irony!"
Not a Vagot, perhaps" mentioning a famous comique whose star had risen in the firmament of the cabaret "not a Vagot, perhaps, but not bad! Not bad?" "Not bad!" acquiesced Blake. "Very good!" added Max, pondering hotly upon the wage of the singer, and regarding M. Fruvier with doubtful glance. "No! No!
With the appearance of the new-comer a little stir of life was felt, and in obedience to some impulse of his own, Max took a sketch-book and a pencil from his pocket, and sat forward in his seat, with glance roving round and round the room, pencil poised above the paper. "I heard this fellow here twelve years ago," said Blake. "He and Vagot were young men then.
Shows the odd lie of things in this world! There's Vagot making his thousands of francs a week next door at the Moulin Rouge, and this poor fat clown still where he was!" Max did not reply. His head was bent, his face flushed; he was sketching with a furious haste. "What are you doing?" Still no reply.
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