‘Behold, I will do a new thing. Now it shall spring forth. And the beasts of the field shall honour me, the dragons and the owls’ – Bible

14 Prologueto Léon Clopet, architect

When your Petrus, or Pierre, had no stone to make his chair, no more sighs or tears to shed, and ne’er a nail above his bed to hang his old guitar upon, you gave me shelter, dear Léon. Come, little Rhapsodist, you said, write your poems, eat my bread, although the sky is hardly blue and Homer’s heav’n is not for you, nor that which warmed the troubadour, for here ‘tis cold, and you are poor. Ah, Paris has no forest free, so come, my little poet, to me, where pinched but happy we may live and friendship to each other give. And we will share our little lot of sweet hashish till all’s forgot! My humble and ashamed soul thus blessed the friend that made it whole and helped it in its misery. For in my cruel adversity, struck long and low with anxious fear, you only, Léon, shed a tear!