And so I’m waiting, waiting here to meet him face to face;
For has it not been ever said that all the world one day
Will pass in pilgrimage before the Café de la Paix?”
“But, sir,” I made remonstrance, “if its twenty years ago,
You’d scarcely recognize him now, he must have altered so.”
The little wizened Spanish man he laughed a hideous laugh,
And from his cloak he quickly drew a faded photograph.
“You’re right,” said he, “but there are traits (oh, this you must allow)
That never change; Lopez was fat, he must be fatter now.
His paunch is senatorial, he cannot see his toes,
I’m sure of it; and then, behold! that wen upon his nose.
I’m looking for a man like that. I’ll wait and wait until…”
“What will you do?” I sharply cried; he answered me: “Why, kill!
He robbed me of my happiness—nay, stranger, do not start;
I’ll firmly and politely put—a bullet in his heart.”
And then that little Spanish man, with big cigar alight,
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THE ABSINTHE DRINKERS
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