of keys which Manon
took from a drawer, and he saw her light the candle in a large brass
candlestick. Manon went first, without uttering a word. When Godefroid
found himself again on the staircase, winding up two flights, he
doubted the reality of life, he dreamed awake, he saw with his eyes the
fantastic world of romances he had read in his idle hours. Any Parisian
leaving, as he did, the modern quarter, with its luxury of houses and
furniture, the glitter of its restaurants and theatres, the tumult and
movement of the heart of Paris, would have shared his feeling.

The candle carried by the woman feebly lighted the winding stair, where
spiders swung their draperies gray with dust. Manon wore a petticoat
with heavy plaits of a coarse woollen stuff; the bodice was square
before and square behind, and all her clothes seemed to hang together.
When she reached the second floor, which, it will be remembered, was
actually the third, Manon stopped, turned a key in an ancient lock, and
opened a door painted in a coarse imitation of mahogany.

"This is it," she said, entering first.

Was it a miser, was it an artist dying in penury, was it a cynic to whom
the world was naught, or some religious soul detached from life, who had
occupied this apartment? That triple question might well be asked by one
who breathed the odor of that poverty, who saw the greasy spots upon the
papers yellow with smoke, the blackened ceilings, the dusty windows with
their casement panes, the discolored floor-bricks, the wainscots layered
with a sort of sticky glaze. A damp chill came from the chimneys with
their mantels of painted stone, surmounted by mirrors in panels of the
style of the seventeenth century. The apartment was square, like the
house, and looked out upon the inner court, which could not now be seen
because of the darkness.

"Who has lived here?" asked Godefroid of the priest.

"A former councillor of the parliament, a great-uncle of madame,
Monsieur de Boisfrelon. After the Revolution he fell into dotage; but
he did not die until 1832, at the age of ninety-six. Madame could not at
first make up her mind to let his rooms to a stranger, but she finds she
cannot afford to lose the rent."

"Madame will have the apartment cleaned and furnished in a manner to
satisfy monsieur," said Manon.

"That will depend on the arrangement you make with her," said the
priest. "You have here a fine parlor, a large sleeping-room and closet,
and thos