ndre. "I was strongly
tempted to pitch him out of the window."

Paul was in a furious rage for having visited the studio with the kindly
desire of humiliating the painter. He could not but feel that the tables
had been turned upon himself.

"He shall not have it all his own way," muttered he; "for I will see the
lady," and not reflecting on the meanness of his conduct, he crossed the
street, and took up a position from which he could obtain a good view of
the house where Andre resided. It was snowing; but Paul disregarded the
inclemency of the weather in his eagerness to act the spy.

He had waited for fully half an hour, when a cab drove up. Two women
alighted from it. The one was eminently aristocratic in appearance,
while the other looked like a respectable servant. Paul drew closer;
and, in spite of a thick veil, recognized the features he had seen in
the photograph.

"Ah!" said he, "after all, Rose is more to my taste, and I will get back
to her. We will pay up Loupins, and get out of his horrible den."

CHAPTER VIII.

MADEMOISELLE DE MUSSIDAN.

Paul had not been the only watcher; for at the sound of the carriage
wheels the ancient portress took up her position in the doorway, with
her eyes fixed on the face of the young lady. When the two women had
ascended the stairs, a sudden inspiration seized her, and she went out
and spoke to the cabman.

"Nasty night," remarked she; "I don't envy you in such weather as this."

"You may well say that," replied the driver; "my feet are like lumps of
ice."

"Have you come far?"

"Rather; I picked them up in the Champs Elysees, near the Avenue de
Matignon."

"That is a distance."

"Yes; and only five sous for drink money. Hang your respectable women!"

"Oh! they are respectable, are they?"

"I'll answer for that. The other lot are far more open-handed. I know
both of them."

And with these words and a knowing wink, he touched up his horse and
drove away; and the portress, only half satisfied, went back to her
lodge.

"Why that is the quarter where all the swells live," murmured she. "I'll
tip the maid next time, and she'll let out everything."

After Paul's departure, Andre could not remain quiet; for it appeared to
him as if each second was a century. He had thrown open the door of his
studio, and ran to the head of the stairs at every sound.

At last their footsteps really sounded on the steps. The sweetest music
in the world is the rustle of the