as fond of long rambles in the low and
remote quarters of Paris, through those labyrinths of narrow streets,
filthy courts, and rickety houses, where the character and
peculiarities of the humbler classes of Parisians are best to be
studied. Returning, after dark, from an expedition of this kind, I was
surprised by a violent shower in a shabby street of the Faubourg St
Antoine, and took refuge under a doorway. Immediately opposite to me
was the wretched shop of a _traiteur_, in whose dingy window a cloudy
white bowl of mashed spinach, a plate of bouilli, dry as a deal plank,
and some triangular fragments of pear, stewed with cochineal and
exposed in a saucer, served as indications of the luxurious fare to be
obtained within. On one of the grimy shutters, whose scanty coat of
green paint the weather had converted into a sickly blue, was the
announcement, in yellow letters, that "_Fricot, Traiteur, donne a
Boire et a Manger_;" whilst upon the other the hieroglyphical
representation of a bottle and glass, flanked by the words "_Bon Vin
de Macon a 8 et a 10 S._" hinted intelligibly at the well-provided
state of Monsieur Fricot's cellar. It was one of those humble
eating-houses, abounding in the French capital, where a very hungry
man may stave off starvation for about the price of a tooth-pick at
the _Cafe_ or the _Trois Freres_, and where an exceedingly thirsty one
may get intoxicated upon potato brandy and essence of logwood for a
similar amount. It needs a three days' fast or a paviour's appetite to
induce entrance into such a place. I was gazing with some curiosity at
the windows of this poor tavern, through whose starred and patched
panes, crowded with bottles, and backed by a curtain of dirty muslin,
the waving of iron forks and spoons was dimly discernible by the light
of two flickering candles, when the door suddenly opened, a man came
out, heedless of the rain, which fell in torrents, and walked rapidly
away. It was but a second, and he was lost in the darkness of the
ill-lighted street, but in that second I thought I distinguished the
gait and features of Frank Oakley. But my view of him was very
indistinct, and I concluded myself misled by a resemblance. Since that
day nothing had occurred to remind me of him, and for a long time I
had entirely forgotten the good-hearted but reckless scamp, who for a
brief period had attracted my attention.

Frank Oakley, then, it was, who now stood before me under the arcades
o