or he heard familiar sounds, full of charm for him,
snatches of song accompanying the work of willing hands, a chorus of
laughter, the piano lesson given by _Grandmamma_, the tic-tac of the
metronome, a delicious domestic hurly-burly that warmed his heart. He
lived with his darlings, who certainly had no idea that they had him so
near at hand.

Once, while Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse, acting as a faithful custodian
of the studio and its brand-new equipment, heard two little taps on the
ceiling of the fourth floor, two separate, very distinct taps, then a
cautious rumbling like the scampering of a mouse. The intimacy between
the photographer and his neighbors justified this prisoner-like method
of communication, but what did that mean? How should he answer what
seemed like a call? At all hazards he repeated the two taps, the soft
drumming sound, and the interview stopped there. When Andre Maranne
returned, he explained it. It was very simple: sometimes, during the
day, the young ladies, who never saw their neighbor except in the
evening, took that means of inquiring for his health and whether
business was improving. The signal he had heard signified: "Is business
good to-day?" and M. Joyeuse had instinctively but unwittingly replied:
"Not bad for the season." Although young Maranne blushed hotly as he
said it, M. Joyeuse believed him. But the idea of frequent
communication between the two households made him fear lest his secret
should be divulged, and thereafter he abstained from what he called his
"artistic days." However, the time was drawing near when he could no
longer conceal his plight, for the end of the month was at hand,
complicated by the end of the year.

Paris was already assuming the usual festal aspect of the last weeks of
December. That is about all that is left in the way of national or
popular merrymaking. The revels of the carnival died with Gavarni, the
religious festivals, the music of which we scarcely hear above the din
of the streets, seclude themselves behind the heavy church doors, the
Fifteenth of August has never been aught but the Saint-Charlemagne of
the barracks; but Paris has retained its respect for the first day of
the year.

Early in December a violent epidemic of childishness is apparent in the
streets. Wagons pass, laden with gilded drums, wooden horses,
playthings by the score. In the manufacturing districts, from top to
bottom of the five-story buildings, former palaces of the Ma