morning, that if
we do not hold each other up," he added, to soothe the elder man's
susceptibilities, "we shall find it hard to escape a tumble."

"But, my dear sir, I am no more than fifty-five, unfortunately for me,"
replied the Comte de Granville. "A physician of your celebrity must know
that at that age a man is still hale and strong."

"Then you are in waiting on a lady, I suppose," replied Horace Bianchon.
"You are not, I imagine, in the habit of going about Paris on foot. When
a man keeps such fine horses----"

"Still, when I am not visiting in the evening, I commonly return from
the Courts or the club on foot," replied the Count.

"And with large sums of money about you, perhaps!" cried the doctor. "It
is a positive invitation to the assassin's knife."

"I am not afraid of that," said Granville, with melancholy indifference.

"But, at least, do not stand about," said the doctor, leading the Count
towards the boulevard. "A little more and I shall believe that you are
bent of robbing me of your last illness, and dying by some other hand
than mine."

"You caught me playing the spy," said the Count. "Whether on foot or in
a carriage, and at whatever hour of the night I may come by, I have for
some time past observed at a window on the third floor of your house the
shadow of a person who seems to work with heroic constancy."

The Count paused as if he felt some sudden pain. "And I take as great an
interest in that garret," he went on, "as a citizen of Paris must feel
in the finishing of the Palais Royal."

"Well," said Horace Bianchon eagerly, "I can tell you--"

"Tell me nothing," replied Granville, cutting the doctor short. "I would
not give a centime to know whether the shadow that moves across that
shabby blind is that of a man or a woman, nor whether the inhabitant of
that attic is happy or miserable. Though I was surprised to see no one
at work there this evening, and though I stopped to look, it was solely
for the pleasure of indulging in conjectures as numerous and as idiotic
as those of idlers who see a building left half finished. For nine
years, my young--" the Count hesitated to use a word; then he waved his
hand, exclaiming--"No, I will not say friend--I hate everything that
savors of sentiment.--Well, for nine years past I have ceased to wonder
that old men amuse themselves with growing flowers and planting trees;
the events of life have taught them disbelief in all human affection;
and I gr