ently
mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what
the other was now. They were English, as one saw and heard, for we were
at the next table. No other country could produce that fair specimen of
girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined
tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy
swain to fields Elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run
swiftly.

Then came up our cunning _maitre-d'hotel_, portly and commanding,
deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little
diplomacy.

"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine
of old.

"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Chateau d'Irrac is superior."

"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Chateau
d'Irrac."

And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the
cellar, whilst many bins of Chateau d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We
sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot
compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a
keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of
monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Chateau d'Irrac is
much appreciated--especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to
change the wine?"

_Amende honorable_, but not accepted; and the Chateau d'Irrac remained.

Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orleans. Paris
had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were
closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.

The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the
river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old
books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or
later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance.
Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life--and where is it
more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its
turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly
Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an
atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet
stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul
has risked the unknown.

Once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of Notre Dame in all the
beauty of Gothic refinement; all the delicate lacework and fl