seeker, rather into the places of Montepin and
Eugene Sue. The moon is down. The sound of dance is stilled in the city.
So go we into the Rue Croissant, with its shaveless thuggeries and
marauding cabs. It is dark, very. And very quiet. And the sniff of
unknown things is to be had in the air. Dens of drink with their furtive
thieves ... the enigma of the shadows of the church of Saint Eustache
... slinking feet to the rear of you ... at length, the Rue Pirouette
and the sign of the angel Gabriel on the lantern before the house. Here
is good company to be found! Well do I remember the _bon-camaraderie_ of
Henri Laverte, that most successful of Parisian burglars, of the good
Jean Darteau, that most artistic of all Parisian second story virtuosi,
of pretty Mado Veralment, who was not convicted for the murder of her
erstwhile lover Abernal, nor, at a later date, for that of her erstwhile
lover Crepeat, both of whom, so it had been rudely whispered by her
enemies, had rashly believed to desert her for another charmer. Witty
and altogether excellent folk. Indeed, I might go further from the truth
than to say that in no woman have ever I found a deeper, a more
authentic appreciation of the poetry of Verlaine than in this
Mademoiselle Mado.

So, too, up the stone steps and into the Caveau of the Rue des
Innocents ... and here--likewise a jolly party. Inquire of most persons
about Le Caveau and you will be apprised that it is a "vile hole," "a
place of the lowest order." It _is_ dirty, so much I will grant; and it
_is_ of a Brobdingnagian smell. Also, is it frequented almost entirely
by murderers, garroters, and thieves. But to say it is a "vile hole" or
"a place of the lowest order" is to say what is not true. It is
immeasurably superior to the tinselled inn of the Rue Royale. And its
habitues constitute an infinitely more respectable lodge. If the left
wall of the cavern contains its "roll of honour"--the names of all the
erstwhile noted gentlemen patrons of the establishment who have, because
of some slight carelessness or oversight, ended their days in the
company of the public executioner--I still cannot appreciate that the
list is any the less civilised than the head waiter's "roll of honour"
at the celebrated tavern in the Avenue de l'Opera. Nor do the numerous
scribbled inscriptions on the other walls, such saucy epigrams as "To
hell with the prefect of police," "The police are damned low flea-full
dogs" and the like im