otel steps.

You hear the questions of the sociable neighborhood; the news proper to
awakening; speculations on the weather bandied across from door to door,
with much interest.

Young milliners, a little late, walk briskly toward town with elastic
step, making now a short pause before a shop just opened; again taking
wing like a bee just scenting a flower.

Even the dead in this gay Paris morning seem to go gayly to the cemetery,
with their jovial coachmen grinning and nodding as they pass.

Superbly aloof from these agreeable impressions, Louis de Camors, a
little pale, with half-closed eyes and a cigar between his teeth, rode
into the Rue de Bourgogne at a walk, broke into a canter on the Champs
Elysees, and galloped thence to the Bois. After a brisk run, he returned
by chance through the Porte Maillot, then not nearly so thickly inhabited
as it is to-day. Already, however, a few pretty houses, with green lawns
in front, peeped out from the bushes of lilac and clematis. Before the
green railings of one of these a gentleman played hoop with a very young,
blond-haired child. His age belonged in that uncertain area which may
range from twenty-five to forty. He wore a white cravat, spotless as
snow; and two triangles of short, thick beard, cut like the boxwood at
Versailles, ornamented his cheeks. If Camors saw this personage he did
not honor him with the slightest notice. He was, notwithstanding, his
former comrade Lescande, who had been lost sight of for several years by
his warmest college friend. Lescande, however, whose memory seemed
better, felt his heart leap with joy at the majestic appearance of the
young cavalier who approached him. He made a movement to rush forward; a
smile covered his good-natured face, but it ended in a grimace. Evidently
he had been forgotten. Camors, now not more than a couple of feet from
him, was passing on, and his handsome countenance gave not the slightest
sign of emotion. Suddenly, without changing a single line of his face, he
drew rein, took the cigar from his lips, and said, in a tranquil voice:

"Hello! You have no longer a wolf head!"

"Ha! Then you know me?" cried Lescande.

"Know you? Why not?"

"I thought--I was afraid--on account of my beard--"

"Bah! your beard does not change you--except that it becomes you. But
what are you doing here?"

"Doing here! Why, my dear friend, I am at home here. Dismount, I pray
you, and come into my house."

"Well, why not?" repl