ng his hand, "there's no reason,
because our wives don't agree--That doesn't hinder us from remaining
friends. What a good chat the other day, eh?"

"No doubt" said the baron, disengaging himself, as he opened the door
noiselessly, showing the deep workroom, whose lamp burned solitarily
before the enormous empty chair. "Come, good-bye, I must go; I have my
mail to despatch."

"_Ya didon, monci_" (But look here, sir) said the poor Nabob, trying to
joke, and using the _patois_ of the south to recall to his old chum all
the pleasant memories stirred up the other evening. "Our visit to Le
Merquier still holds good. The picture we were going to present to him,
you know. What day?"

"Ah, yes, Le Merquier--true--eh--well, soon. I will write to you."

"Really? You know it is very important."

"Yes, yes. I will write to you. Good-bye."

And the big man shut his door in a hurry, as if he were afraid of his
wife coming.

Two days after, the Nabob received a note from Hemerlingue, almost
unreadable on account of the complicated scrawls, of abbreviations more
or less commercial, under which the ex-sutler hid his entire want of
spelling:

MY DEAR OLD COM_--I cannot accom_ you to Le Mer. _Too bus_ just now.
Besid_ y_ will be _bet_ alone to _tal_. Go _th bold_. You are _exp. A_
Cassette, _ev morn_ 8 to 10.

Yours _faith_

HEM.

Below as a postscript, a very small hand had written very legibly:

"A religious picture, as good as possible."

What was he to think of this letter? Was there real good-will in it,
or polite evasion? In any case hesitation was no longer possible. Time
pressed. Jansoulet made a bold effort, then--for he was very frightened
of Le Merquier--and called on him one morning.

Our strange Paris, alike in its population and its aspects, seems a
specimen map of the whole world. In the Marais there are narrow streets,
with old sculptured worm-eaten doors, with overhanging gables
and balconies, which remind you of old Heidelberg. The Faubourg
Saint-Honore, lying round the Russian church with its white minarets and
golden domes, seems a part of Moscow. On Montmartre I know a picturesque
and crowded corner which is simply Algiers. Little, low, clean houses,
each with its brass plate and little front garden, are English streets
between Neuilly and the Champs-Elysees while all behind the apse of
Saint-Sulpice, the Rue Feron, the Rue Cassette, lying peaceably in the
shadow of its great towers, roughly paved