othing in the
summer-house either. Young Maurice told them he thought it was some
practical joke and that he had brushed away the white dust with the
hearth-brush. The real truth was, he had effaced the traces left by the
boots of Odile, the lady's-maid. On the stairs and in the library the
very light print of a bare foot could be discerned, it seemed to have
sprung into the air and to have touched the ground at rare intervals and
without any pressure. They discovered five of these traces. The clearest
was to be found in the abode of the busts and spheres, on the edge of
the table where the books were piled. The photographer took several
negatives of this imprint.

"This is more terrifying than anything else," murmured Monsieur
Sariette.

Monsieur des Aubels did not hide his surprise.

Three days later the anthropometrical department of the Prefecture
returned the proofs exhibited to them, saying that they were not in the
records.

After dinner Monsieur Rene showed the photographs to his brother Gaetan,
who examined them with profound attention, and after a long silence
exclaimed:

"No wonder they have not got this at the Prefecture; it is the foot of a
god or of an athlete of antiquity. The sole that made this impression is
of a perfection unknown to our races and our climates. It exhibits toes
of exquisite grace, and a divine heel."

Rene d'Esparvieu cried out upon his brother for a madman.

"He is a poet," sighed Madame d'Esparvieu.

"Uncle," said Maurice, "you'll fall in love with this foot if you ever
come across it."

"Such was the fate of Vivant Denon, who accompanied Bonaparte to Egypt,"
replied Gaetan. "At Thebes, in a tomb violated by the Arabs, Denon
found the little foot of a mummy of marvellous beauty. He contemplated
it with extraordinary fervour, 'It is the foot of a young woman,' he
pondered, 'of a princess--of a charming creature. No covering has ever
marred its perfect shape.' Denon admired, adored, and loved it. You may
see a drawing of this little foot in Denon's atlas of his journey to
Egypt, whose leaves one could turn over upstairs, without going further
afield, if only Monsieur Sariette would ever let us see a single volume
of his library."

Sometimes, in bed, Maurice, waking in the middle of the night, thought
he heard the sound of pages being turned over in the next room, and the
thud of bound volumes falling on the floor.

One morning at five o'clock he was coming home from the