d his paw to
strike. There monsieur stood, for a whole night, gazing into his glaring
eyes and smoothing his soft neck. Can you imagine his feelings?"

With a bow that would have graced the Duc de Beaumont, he left. I heard
him hastily packing his modest wardrobe; and in fifteen minutes a
tilbury had whirled him away--whither, Heaven only knows.

Leaf the Third.

I do not think his own mother would call him handsome; he is certainly
not young, nor particularly brilliant; and yet there is a fascination
about the proprietor of this rambling old house that gave me an
unaccountable desire to become his tenant. He is a wine-merchant, and
occupies, as his counting-room, the entire second floor. The place is
desolate-looking and dusty, and the furniture old with service; but, I
am told, no man in Paris controls more of the grand vintages than M.
Pontalba. With a Frenchman, the _legality_ of a transaction depends on
its being negotiated in a _cafe_; and it was in one of these I first saw
him. He was seated at a table near me, absorbed with the contents of a
box of baby-clothes, while a rather pretty and exceedingly voluble
_modiste_ harangued him on their beauty. The tenderness of his
expression struck me. He took out the articles one by one, examining
each with the interest of a woman. He ran his fingers through the tiny
sleeves, and smoothed out the ruffles and lace, with a care that was
almost loving. Diminutive cambric shirts, snowy dresses, and silky
flannels,--all in their turn were inspected and replaced with a sigh of
satisfaction.

An ardent young friend and I had been discussing the merits of Comte's
philosophy; but so attracted were we by the singular trait that both
stopped involuntarily, and watched him, until the woman was paid and a
messenger carried the fairy wardrobe away.

My friend was an enthusiastic metaphysician; and, resuming the subject
with a zest, was soon plunged into the phenomena of thought, the action
of the brain, and the vitality of the blood that sustained it. As all
conversant with the subject can readily believe, not many minutes
elapsed before his artful sophistries proved the non-existence of
heaven, hell, and even God himself.

M. Pontalba turned suddenly, and, drawing his chair close beside us,
with an apology for the seeming intrusion, addressed the incipient
skeptic:

"Behind the iron bars of that dreariest of studies, a prison, a little
weed once received the concentrated tho