a poor-looking pair of lads be going to Paris for?" some
one asked his companion.

"Not for pleasure, certainly; perhaps to get work," was the casual
answer.

In the evening they reached Paris, and Marco led the way to a small
cafe in a side-street where they got some cheap food. In the same
side-street they found a bed they could share for the night in a tiny
room over a baker's shop.

The Rat was too much excited to be ready to go to bed early. He begged
Marco to guide him about the brilliant streets. They went slowly along
the broad Avenue des Champs Elysees under the lights glittering among
the horse-chestnut trees. The Rat's sharp eyes took it all in--the
light of the cafes among the embowering trees, the many carriages
rolling by, the people who loitered and laughed or sat at little tables
drinking wine and listening to music, the broad stream of life which
flowed on to the Arc de Triomphe and back again.

"It's brighter and clearer than London," he said to Marco. "The people
look as if they were having more fun than they do in England."

The Place de la Concorde spreading its stately spaces--a world of
illumination, movement, and majestic beauty--held him as though by a
fascination. He wanted to stand and stare at it, first from one point
of view and then from another. It was bigger and more wonderful than
he had been able to picture it when Marco had described it to him and
told him of the part it had played in the days of the French Revolution
when the guillotine had stood in it and the tumbrils had emptied
themselves at the foot of its steps.

He stood near the Obelisk a long time without speaking.

"I can see it all happening," he said at last, and he pulled Marco away.

Before they returned home, they found their way to a large house which
stood in a courtyard. In the iron work of the handsome gates which
shut it in was wrought a gilded coronet. The gates were closed and the
house was not brightly lighted.

They walked past it and round it without speaking, but, when they
neared the entrance for the second time, The Rat said in a low tone:

"She is five feet seven, has black hair, a nose with a high bridge, her
eyebrows are black and almost meet across it, she has a pale olive skin
and holds her head proudly."

"That is the one," Marco answered.

They were a week in Paris and each day passed this big house. There
were certain hours when great ladies were more likely to go out and
come