he only answer, and the unhappy man
continued his way.

"Is that Monsieur de Lamotte?" inquired a particularly dirty woman,
whose cap, stuck on the side of her, head, allowed locks of grey hair to
straggle from under it. "Ah! is that Monsieur de Lamotte?"

"Dear me!" said a neighbour, "don't you know him by this time? He passes
every day."

"Excuse me! I don't belong to this quarter, and--no offence--but it is
not so beautiful as to bring one out of curiosity! Nothing personal--but
it is rather dirty."

"Madame is probably accustomed to use a carriage."

"That would suit you better than me, my dear, and would save your having
to buy shoes to keep your feet off the ground!"

The crowd seemed inclined to hustle the speaker,--

"Wait a moment!" she continued, "I didn't mean to offend anyone. I am a
poor woman, but there's no disgrace in that, and I can afford a glass of
liqueur. Eh, good gossip, you understand, don't you? A drop of the best
for Mother Maniffret, and if my fine friend there will drink with me to
settle our difference, I will stand her a glass."

The example set by the old hawker was contagious, and instead of filling
two little glasses only, widow Masson dispensed a bottleful.

"Come, you have done well," cried Mother Maniffret; "my idea has brought
you luck."

"Faith! not before it was wanted, either!"

"What! are you complaining of trade too?"

"Ah! don't mention it; it is miserable!"

"There's no trade at all. I scream myself hoarse all day, and choke
myself for twopence halfpenny. I don't know what's to come of it all.
But you seem to have a nice little custom."

"What's the good of that, with a whole house on one's hands? It's just
my luck; the old tenants go, and the new ones don't come."

"What's the matter, then?"

"I think the devil's in it. There was a nice man on the first
floor-gone; a decent family on the third, all right except that the
man beat his wife every night, and made such a row that no one could
sleep--gone also. I put up notices--no one even looks at them! A
few months ago--it was the middle of December, the day of the last
execution--"

"The 15th, then," said the hawker. "I cried it, so I know; it's my
trade, that."

"Very well, then, the 15th," resumed widow Masson. "On that day, then, I
let the cellar to a man who said he was a wine merchant, and who paid a
term in advance, seeing that I didn't know him, and wouldn't have lent
him a farthing on the strength