r mind, it's only a tap to pay for. We won't say any more about it.
But did any one come to see me?"

"Ah, let me see--yes. A big gentleman, rather red-faced, with his wife, a
fat lady, with a small voice; a fine woman, rather in my style, and their
daughter--but perhaps you know her, sir?"

"Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe her. You told them that I was
away, and they said they were very sorry."

"Especially the lady. She puffed and panted and sighed: 'Dear Monsieur
Mouillard! How unlucky we are, Madame Menin; we have just come to Paris
as he has gone to Italy. My husband and I would have liked so much to see
him! You may think it fanciful, but I should like above all things to
look round his rooms. A student's rooms must be so interesting. Stay
there, Berthe, my child.' I told them there was nothing very interesting,
and that their daughter might just as well come in too, and then I showed
them everything."

"They didn't stay long, I suppose?"

"Quite long enough. They were an age looking at your photograph album. I
suppose they haven't got such things where they come from. Madame Lorinet
couldn't tear herself away from it. 'Nothing but men,' she said, 'have
you noticed that, Jules?'--'Well, Madame,' I said, 'that's just how it is
here; except for me, and I don't count, only gentlemen come here. I've
kept house for bachelors where--well, there are not many--'

"That will do, Madame Menin; that will do. I know you always think too
highly of me. Hasn't Lampron been here?"

"Yes, sir; the day before yesterday. He was going off for a fortnight or
three weeks into the country to paint a portrait of some priest--a
bishop, I think."

July 15th.

"Midi, roi des etes." I know by heart that poem by "Monsieur le Comte de
l'Isle," as my Uncle Mouillard calls him. Its lines chime in my ears
every day when I return from luncheon to the office I have left an hour
before. Merciful heaven, how hot it is! I am just back from a hot
climate, but it was nothing compared to Paris in July. The asphalt melts
underfoot; the wood pavement is simmering in a viscous mess of tar; the
ideal is forced to descend again and again to iced lager beer; the walls
beat back the heat in your face; the dust in the public gardens, ground
to atoms beneath the tread of many feet, rises in clouds from under the
water-cart to fall, a little farther on, in white showers upon the
passers-by. I wonder that, as a finishing st