rts which are circulated of
him."

"How could she be so foolish?"

"Nay, pray do not fear me! I assure you I may safely be trusted."

"But, really, sir," rejoined Pipelet, "I do not think there is the least
dependence to be placed in such reports. I do not believe them, for one.
I never can believe them; my modesty would not let me," added M.
Pipelet, turning very red, and preceding his new lodger to the floor
above.

The more resolved upon clearing up his doubts in proportion to the very
great annoyance he felt that the residence of Polidori in the same house
would prove to him, and becoming momentarily more disposed to affix a
painful solution to the enigma of the piercing cry he had heard from the
apartments of the Italian, Rodolph bound himself by a rigid promise to
investigate the matter, so as to place it beyond the power of a doubt,
and followed the porter to the upper floor, where was situated the
chamber he was desirous of engaging.

It was easy to ascertain the abode of his next-door neighbour Mlle.
Rigolette. Thanks to the charming gallantry of the painter, Pipelet's
mortal foe, the door of her chamber was ornamented after the manner of
Watteau, with a panel design representing about half a dozen fat little
chubby Loves, grouped round a space painted sky blue, and on which was
traced, in pink letters, "_Mademoiselle Rigolette, Dressmaker_." These
plump little Cupids had all a task to perform besides encircling this
important announcement. One held the thimble of Mlle. Rigolette upon his
tiny finger; another held her scissors; a third was provided with a
smoothing-iron for her use; whilst a fourth held up a mirror, as if to
tempt the young sempstress to forsake her work for the more gratifying
view of her own pretty countenance. The whole was surrounded with a
well-chosen wreath of flowers, whose gay colours contrasted agreeably
with the sea-green colour of the door; the whole offering a very
unfavourable contrast to the mean and shabby-looking staircase. At the
risk of opening anew the bleeding wounds of Alfred, Rodolph ventured to
observe, while pointing to the door of Mlle. Rigolette:

"This, I suppose, is the work of M. Cabrion?"

"It is; he destroyed the painting of the door by daubing it over with a
parcel of fat, indecent children he called his _loves_. Had it not been
for the entreaties of Mlle. Rigolette, and the weakness of M. Bras
Rouge, I would have scratched it all off, as well as this pal