eptable to your other guests, or to yourself."

The old man's eyes sparkled as I spoke, and his lips moved rapidly, as
though he were speaking to himself; then, taking my hand, he pressed it
to his lips, and said,--

"Monsieur could not be more welcome than at present. Shall we expect you
to-day at dinner?"

"Be it so. Your hour?"

"Four o'clock, to the moment. Do not forget the number, 46 Monsieur
Rubichon; the house with a large garden in front."

"Till then," said I, bowing to my host, whose ceremonious politeness
made me feel my own salute an act of rudeness in comparison.

As I parted from the old man, I was glad at the relief to my own
thoughts which even thus much of speculation afforded, and sauntered on,
fancying many a strange conceit about the "pension" and its inhabitants.
At last the hour drew near; and having placed my few effects in a
cabriolet, I set out for the distant boulevard of Mont Parnasse.

I remarked with pleasure, that as we went along the streets and
thoroughfares became gradually less and less crowded; scarcely a
carriage of any kind was to be met with. The shops were, for the most
part, the quiet, unpretending-looking places one sees in a provincial
town; and an air of peacefulness and retirement prevailed, strongly at
variance with the clamor and din of the heart of the capital. This was
more than ever so as we emerged upon the boulevard itself: on one side
of which houses, at long straggling intervals, alone were to be seen;
at the other, the country lay open to the view, with its orchards and
gardens, for miles away.

"_Saprelotte!_" said the driver, who, like so many of his calling, was a
blunt son of Alsace,--"_saprelotte!_ we have come to the end of the world
here. How do you call the strange street you are looking for?"

"The Rue de Mi-Careme."

"Mi-Careme? I 'd rather you lived there than me; that name does not
promise much in regard to good feeding. Can this be it?"

As he spoke he pointed with his whip to a narrow, deserted-looking
street, which opened from the boulevard. The houses were old and
dilapidated, but stood in small gardens, and seemed like the remains
of the villa residences of the Parisians in times long past. A few more
modern edifices, flaring with red brick fronts, were here and there
scattered amongst them; but for all the decay and dismantlement of the
others, they seemed like persons of rank and condition in the company of
their inferiors.

Few of