or his portrait. The
old gentleman came patiently to his studio and posed for ten days, at
the end of which time the abbe gazed at the result and said things which
I dare not repeat--for our enthusiast had so far only painted his
clothes; the face was still in its primary drawing.

"The face I shall do in time," the enthusiast assured the reverend man
excitedly; "it is the effect of the rich color of your robe I wished to
get. And may I ask your holiness to be patient a day longer while I put
in your boots?"

"No, sir!" thundered the irate abbe. "Does monsieur think I am not a
very busy man?"

Then softening a little, he said, with a smile:

"I won't come any more, my friend. I'll send my boots around to-morrow
by my boy."

But the longest red-letter day has its ending, and time and tide beckon
one with the brutality of an impatient jailer.

On my studio table is a well-stuffed envelope containing the documents
relative to my impending exile--a stamped card of my identification,
bearing the number of my cell, a plan of the slave-ship, and six red
tags for my baggage.

The three pretty daughters of old Pere Valois know of my approaching
departure, and say cheering things to me as I pass the concierge's
window.

Pere Valois stands at the gate and stops me with: "Is it true, monsieur,
you are going Saturday?"

"Yes," I answer; "unfortunately, it is quite true."

The old man sighs and replies: "I once had to leave Paris myself";
looking at me as if he were speaking to an old resident. "My regiment
was ordered to the colonies. It was hard, monsieur, but I did my duty."

The morning of my sailing has arrived. The patron of the tobacco-shop,
and madame his good wife, and the wine merchant, and the baker along the
little street with its cobblestone-bed, have all wished me "bon voyage,"
accompanied with many handshakings. It is getting late and Pere Valois
has gone to hunt for a cab--a "galerie," as it is called, with a place
for trunks on top. Twenty minutes go by, but no "galerie" is in sight.
The three daughters of Pere Valois run in different directions to find
one, while I throw the remaining odds and ends in the studio into my
valise. At last there is a sound of grating wheels below on the gravel
court. The "galerie" has arrived--with the smallest of the three
daughters inside, all out of breath from her run and terribly excited.
There are the trunks and the valises and the bicycle in its crate to get
down.