letter, by the aid
of which, as he held it above his head, he took a rapid survey of the
chamber and its contents, myself being the chief movable it boasted.

"Of a truth, my friend," said he, "this apartment has nothing
superfluous about it."

"Cool and airy," said I, calmly, "with a magnificent view of red-tiled
roofs and chimney-pots."

"And you--would it be an impertinence to ask if you ever condescend
to the restriction of anything more limited than that very graceful
dressing-room?"

"Oh, certainly!" exclaimed I; "only be good enough to say why you ask
the question." By this time the stranger's torch had burned down so
close to his fingers as to cause an exclamation of pain as he threw it
on the ground, and thus were we once more in the dark.

"Not from mere motives of idle curiosity, Monsieur," said he, "did
I ask, but simply, having come here to request the pleasure of your
company at dinner to-day. I made the inquiry with a direct object. My
name is Paul de Minerale."

"Not the distinguished writer, the inimitable novelist, the delightful
composer of the 'Curate's Niece,' 'The Path through the Vineyard,'
'The Rose of Auteuil'?"

"I am much flattered," said he, cutting short my enumeration, "to
discover so ardent an admirer of my poor productions; but, as time
presses, will you be good enough to hasten your toilet, for my 'cottage'
is near Belleville, and will take us nigh an hour to reach."

I proceeded accordingly to array myself in cleaner costume, while my
visitor kept up an agreeable conversation, chiefly bearing upon my line
of life, the changeful passages of which, he seemed to think, ought to
offer much amusement; nor could he conceal his astonishment on learning
that he himself was my first and only client. "What an age we live in
I" cried he; "where is that 'ancient faith' departed? Can men so openly
disparage the gods?"

"Though my theology has been changed," said I, "that's all. The Bourse
and the Ballet are the modern deities, and he must be a rare sceptic who
refuses to believe in them."

"You are a philosopher, I perceive," said he.

"Only before dinner," replied I. "I am speculative with the soup, and
grave with my 'petit pate;' reserved with the first entree; blandly
communicative after the piece de resistance; playful over the asparagus
or the peas; soothing with the roti; and so descend into a soft and
gentle sadness as the dessert appears. I leave digestion to take its
course,