THE DEATH MASK.

Evening Star, Issue 12060, 2 March 1907, Page 3

THE DEATH MASK.

[All Bights Reserved.]

> By Mastts J. M'HrGn (|\pthor of * Lone Point Light.' ' Straws in the Wind,' etc., etc.).

CHAPTER XIV. OLD FrOB.VDS AND SEW,

I got through the next day by idling away the time till the evening came, my onlv useful act being to write a few lines to Barton, enclosing a letter to Nellie, which I asiksd him to post to her in London. At eight o'clock in the evening, having previously settled my account, I had my portmanteau brought to thecourtyard of" the hotel, wliere I seated myself on the beDch, and awaited the arrival of mv friendo.

I had, to (he great trial of my patience, waited there almost an hour and a-half, when suddenly the little street was filled with a tumult of sound, as a vehicle clattered over the cobble stones and drew up abruptly at ihe hotel ivith a crash and a commotion of shouts. There was no mistaking the cause of this whirlwind, and I seised my portmanteau and stepped towards the porte-cochere just as a voice shouted to the porter: "Where is your Monsieur Brown? Toll him. to come at once.'* I appeared as the astonished poiter was staring at his vivacious interlocutor. Seeing me, the man turned towards mo with a bewildered questioning gesture. " That is all right," I said to him. shortly. "Of course, it is all right," said Gautier, who was standing up in an open barouche. '" Come along., Monsieur Brown. Wo are pressed for time, for we have our carriage by the hour." So saying. Gautier leant forward and reached oat his hand to mo, while liis two companions did likewise, and in a second I with my portmanteau was dragged sprawling into the barouche. 'Now, oocher, whip up, my bravo man. Quick! Bring us through our labyrinth like a thousand thunders." The grinning driver thereupon oracked his whip loudly three or four times, and off wo set rattling down the street, amidst tho shouts of my companions and the welldeserved attention of the many who had been attracted to doors and windows. We had turned to the right into the Rne de Rivoli. and were going along that l>ril-liantry-lightcd street—though at a quieter pewe, on account of the traffic—before I recovered my breath. When I did. I raid hotly to Gantier: " What made you come like that, as a tempest? Cculd there have boon anything worse, when I wanted to leave quietly? Now, anyone may be attracted to follow US'."

"So much the better, my friend," answered Gautier. gaily. ""That is what we wonted. Lot them follow i£. Yes. certainly. We invite that. Then ve shall lead them a pretty journey. They will first us. ai;d then low themselves. You will eeo!" At that the others- gave a shout of laughter, and ail were in such exuberant spirits that I knew it was useless to say more on the subject. But. being angry. I could cot join in their mirth, and so kept lient for the moment. "What a man!" said Gautier. "Here we have brought him off in great triumph, and he will not speak to us—-he will not .even recognise us! Lenraitre, Do Mouille, accept my sincere condolence!" I acknowledged the rebuke, and joined in the laughter. But it was r.ot quite deserved, fox I "had alroadv recognised in the stoat, fair young man sitting opposite me my friend -Lemaitre. At. his companion. . a. little, merry-looking, blackbearded individual, I now stared in surprise, and thus aroused new merriment. "Do Moniilo!" I said. "I never knew you, upon my honor," and I reached out my hand to him. "Ho has smothered his fine moustache in the beard of a brigand," said Lemaitre. " You remember that fine moustache? Ah, yes. Why is it gone? Why has De Mouilk* made hinwelf forty instead of twenty-five? Only one reason. He is in love. She thought him too young to be seriotia, so he "

We 'were interrupted by a shout, and the barouche stopped suddenly. Taming sharply into tie Rua Royale", it had almost run into a motor-car. and for a minute ire iraited ■while the respective drivers exchanged voluble amenities. After that we had to proceed more slowly. "Do not trouble," said Gautkr, "we shall make up for it in our labyrinth," We met with a great stream of traffic np the magnificent Rue Royale, and thence turned into ice brilliant Boulevard das Italiens. ,

"To think of it!" said Lemaitre, suddenly, as.l -was getting absorbed in watching the endless traffic, the pedestrians, the cafes, and all the sites of the brilliantlylighted thoroughfares, and recalling old days. "To think of it! Here is our good friend as quiet as a mouse. Assuredly he must be in love, too! He writes to me~: 'My dear Lemaitre, I am now here in Paris, and loaging to see you to bring back the old times again.' And, behold, he gives no address. '

"And the some to roe," broke in De Mooule. "No address. 'Surely it may be a letter from the grave!' I said as I read it, and shivered at the thought. Yes, be must be in love-!"

Aa he spoke w« bad got into the Boulevard St. Denis, and then turned into the wide Boulevard; SebastapoL I vigorously denied the playful impeachment, and reminded them that I had come to Paria on urgent business (a fact which I found thev already knew), and then instinctively the conversation touched on Sandford.

" That Sand ford, yes, he was a. droll," said Lemaitre. "Never shall I forget the other xngbt, Gactier, "when you brought us to meet him. We were a. happy party, all but he, who had been so gay in past days, and he sat there like a mummy out of the Louvre. Ma fed! One would thrnfc- he had dined on quinces. What was wrong' with our good friend? Impossible to thank—imposanlfi to guess." With all their gaiety and wtOdoess, these three were sterling good fellows and honorable friends, as I well knew in the past, and worthy of any confidence; so, after a moment's inward deliberation, I told them as much of Sandford's circumstances as I cculd well give. At the end of the Boulevard Sebastapol we entered narrower and less brilliant streets, and passing ia a detour by the Halles Centrales, arrived at the back of Notre Dame. Here, under the shadow of the great cathedral, Gander climbed up beside the driver, to guide us, he said, through the labyrinth we were to traverse before reaching our destination. In spite of our imprudent setting out, I felt that such a precaution could now be regarded only as an entertainment. In the earlier part of oar journey I kept a meet anxious watch to note if "we were followed, and I had eeen no tourist in check or any other suspicious party behind us in the stream of traffic. At that moment I felt quite free from any anxiety on the master. However, on we went, according to Gautier's programme. On, across the bridge by the cathedral, and ksto the Boulevard St." Michel, then to the left, into the Boulevard St- Germain, quickening our jpeed as we proceeded. From the Boole■*"!d St. Germain we reached the Rne <Jes Ecaks, and from that we passed into a number of dark streets. This was evidently our labyrinth, and here w-e passed so rapidly from one dark street to another, took so many turns, and retraced our steps so many times, that, well as I had known the district in my student days, I scon lost my sense of direction. But then I got into a rather earnest conversation with my companions about Sandford and his probable whereabouts, and that diverted my attention.

After about three-quarters of an hour I of this tortuous course, we emerged into a street which I recognised, and thence passed into the ftue Chevalier. I remembered the narrow street well, and every one of the cafes, shops, and stuii*iuts' dwellings. Here, at one of the eaftri, the b;ti'ui!che drew up, and Guutier, jumping off his perch, ei•flaqped to saci,

"Behold my home! lam living here at' Mendon's now. You remember old Meudon and his wooden leg and special,chablis? Au Sixieme, for the top light, you understand, but a. most comfortable appartement. Gir'e me your portmanteau." I "retained! my portmanteau, though not without a struggle for its possession, and then, preceded by Gautier, we entered an open doorway at the right of the cafe, passed through a passage lighted by a. gas. jet, and commenced the ascent of the stone staircase. The sixth storey, even where, as in Paris, the ground iloor counts as the first storey, is a good mount to tbo top of a high house, and 1 was not sorry when I and my portmanteau had surmounted the five flights of stone steps, even though we had nad a pause at two of tho landings, where Gautier unceremoniously rushed in at doors there to call some of his friends. Arrived at the top landing, Gautier, with a kick, flung open the door, and, with a mock bow, ushered us into his appartment. The room we entered was a studio. It was a large, high apartment, and the light was from a hanging lamp, suspended from a middle rafter; its appointments had a handsome and even luxurious appearance.. The room was hung round with dark crimson hangings, which, on the right and left sides, were suspended from brass rods, and evidently servcil there as screens. Placed negligently about tho studio were several easels of various sizes, from very large to very small, containing paintings in all stages of progress, and two walls were covered with canvases, water-colors, pastels, and black-and-white sketches, while casques, cuirasses, and other items of armor of different periods, with arms ancient and modern, adorned every other vacant space. To the right was a dais, on which stood a long couch draped with a leopard s-kin, while three very small tables and four or five chairs, all of different styles, were disposed anywhere. In the centre of the room stood a rather large flat-topped stove, in which a fire burned, ;uid by which, as we entered,

two young men were sitting watching some culinary operations. As was natural in tho circumstances, the room was somewhat

** Yes, it is a little too warm," said Gautier. noting my glance at the stove,"' but, alas, we could not do all the cooking on my other stove. Wo will put out tnis fire in a minute. You will be finished immediately, will you not, Perot? \\ycroft, I must present you to Georges Perot, of the Beaux Arts, an excellent artist and an excellent ccwk, whom it delights to act as chef when he is allowed; and also my friend Linden, one of your language, from.' New York, a great genius at the polytechnique, and a true wizard at the composition of drinks." The individuals named looked up a minute

from their evidently absorbing occupations, and acknowledged the introduction. Perot, whose nationality could be easily identified, wis an unkempt-looking object, with dark eyes and tangled hair and beard; the other. Linden, looked a mere youth, tali, with thin, hairless face, pale, and grey-eyed.

"Go to the kitchen and be useful," said Gautier, unceremoniously, to Le Maitre and De Mouille, and then he led me to the right, through the crimson hangings, and into a portion of the room where the light coming over the partitioning hangings disclosed! to view two small beds and the fittings of a very negligently-arranged bedroom.

** You are too civilised like that," said my host; " too much like a respectable young bourgeois. Change to a more comfortable coat—look about the place; youl will find much choice. Now I must see to everything. Change, and come to us then." But I had resources enough provided in anticipation in my portmanteau, from which I took a velvet coat, crimson smoking cap, and carpet slippers, in which I leisurely arrayed myself. As I did so the sound of voices behind the partition was augmented by new-comers, and the babe] of talk and ! laughter rose, and then becamo mingled with the sounds of dragging about of furniture, and the clatter of crockery and glass. When I joined the party I found that it had indoed been augmented. There were five new-comers, to whom, in the hurry and bustle, I was very heartily introduced. Everyone was busy lending a hand to preparo or servo the supper, and I, not to be a drone, undertook the dressing of a lobster salad, the lobster having finally to be disintegrated, with the aid of a poker, on> the iron foundation of toe stove. The three tables, all of unequal siae and height, were placed together near the dais, and covered with sheets of wrapping paper and serviettes. When, with a rush, Perot and lis many assistants served the supper, the combined tables) would accommodate only the dishes and the wine supply—plates and accessories had to go underneath. And then the company of ten disposed of themselves anyhow in five chairs, the couch, and "the floor.

How could I describe that supper? I could not even if I would; and then, this in the narrative of a tragedy, but it was a glorious night indeed. The joyful company to a man declared that Perot outshone himself ; that he deserved the cordon bleu; that he was worthy to be chef of the Maison Doree. And. indeed, if his art was as good .as his soup, his ragouts, and his fricassees, he would be an artist of rare merit. But such a. happy company would have made festival on any fare. The only touch of ceremony was when our host, standing on the couch, formally introduced me in an ornate speech, the elaborate flattery in which was _£»ceived with knife-handle applause. After that, everyone spoke, shouted, laughed, told funny anecdotes, and sang together, and never was there such a medley, whose tongues represented half a dozen nations. Old Mendon's special chablis, our host's choicest vintage, disappeared like magic, and the vin rouge circulated like water, linden's native concoctions were variously received, according to individual taste, gaining acclamation or being emptied into a con-veniently-placed Japanese vase. And. with the black coffee and the cognac and the tobacco camo the musical talent, and plenty of it. Everyone sang. A nervous-looking Austrian, who had done nothing but eat, , was the best vocalist, and so lavishly obliged •with his bassoon-like bass that he had finally to be overpowered by the company. Qautier played the mandoline, liinden played the flute, and everyone else accompanied with the table ware.

And so the hilarious supper which commenced at eleven o'clock, lasted until about two in the morning, the company departing with uproarious song just as the dawn was coming through the top-lights of the studio. Then, left alone with my host, we returned to the partitioned bedroom for our very necessary rest, leaving the studio a lumber room of untidiness by the grey light of the dawn.

And sucß wts the beginning of my quest of Fred Sandford and his secret; but if I could have known how it would end I should not have feasted, laughed, or sang that night.

CHAPTER XV. THE CABAItET DES DEtTX VOISINS. From that eventful night when my three friends —Gauiier, Le Maitre, and Be Mouille —carried nie away from the hotel in such" indiscreet irinniph, I became one of themselves. The new life, or, rather, the old life n;newcd, was for a time so intoxicating with its brightness and irresponsibility that the object of my mifsion, if not quite forfotten, was not so vigorously pursued as it should have been. I fell under the spell of my surroundings, and, to all intents and purposes, became once more a happy-go-lucky student of the Quartier Latin, one with" vhe set whose life I had so unexpectedly resumed, yet not at one with them in everything, for the interval of responsible years that separated me from myA youthful student days held their influence in some respects, and so there were phases of that curious and complex life into which I could no longer enter. In most outer respects I was 3 student once more; I worked among them, feasted with them, gaily tramped the " Boul Mioh " and the students' time-honored precincts with them ; but time and temperament marked a limit for me that it did not for them, and there were amusements in which I could no longer join them. But I was voted "bon camar-.tde" for all that, in that heterogeneous community where all might do as they liked; and to be "bon eamarade " in that most practical democracy ■ meant that you would never lack shelter, entertainment, or gaistenauue as long as any member bad a garret or a sou to share. However, I did r.ot need to so test-the good I eaaradesbirt pi my frienda. . Indeed, I was j

possibly the wealthiest of my little, set at that timo, so that I could be specially independent. For that reason I did not long remain Gautier's .guesti A coujilo of days after ho had taken me to his appartmeht, I secured a room for myself in" the same house, buying up, so to speak, thegoodwilland fittings of a student who was giving up practice. My good friend was at first angry, and offended at my action. "Wist!" be said hotly, "you will not accent my little hospitality? It is not much, it is true, but still, it is given with a whole heart. lam hurt, lam desolated ! Who ever heard of one friend so behaving to another?''

"I>o not talk folly, iny dear Gautier," I said, laughing. "You" have been kind, and J would stay with you as long as you liked, but that I want to. set up for myself just fof a while. Bo reasonable! "How could I work with wet clay in this charming studio? I shall be near you at all times, and with you as often as you could possibly wish." My good friend did not readily cease remonstrating, for all that; but my reasons were unanswerable, and be had at length

to admit that much. So I moved into a room of my own, and set about occupying myself in my free hours. The arrangemenc was a very wise one—indeed, none other would have been very convenient, for Gautier was a busy mam in his Own way. Ho had steadily been fulfilling the promise of bis (student days, and if ho had not achieved the object of every ambitions students hopes, the .Prix de Rome, ho had done well at tho galleries, and was making his way as an artist, with a good prospect of eventually achieving a name for himself. His picture that year in the Salon had attracted tho attention of the public, and, what was more important for him, of the art dealers, and a gratifying purchase, with several commissions following on it, had been the pleasant result. Consequently my friend had now plenty io occupy the most of his time, and many visitors to his studio j and despite his friendly protestations, I might have frequently been very inconvenient had I billeted myself on him. As it was, wo practically shared one another's rooms.

Of Lemaitru and De Mouille, above all ° il' X fUst> s>w a Rlvat dcjL Thc y ■would come to mo at a.ny and all times without any ceremony, and eit with, mo in thou- hours of idleness, smoking and chatting, recounting adventures, and criticising the clay modelling with which I occupied my spar© time. They were deeply interested in my quest, and that often formed the topic of our conversation. Indeed, all y.-bo visited mo touched upon that topic, for it was common propertv But while it was common property among them, there was no risk in its so being, for loyalty was the keynote, of the students" intercourse. It was advantageous that all my friends and acquaintances there should know of my mission of seeking the whereabouts of our common former associate, Bradford, and get a hint that he was in trouble; there was no risk for him in the admission, while it made everyone more eager to ferret out bis whereabouts, but especially discreet in so doing.

" There is no positive new-s of votir friend —none," said De Mouille one day; "it is a droll matter how he could so disappear." "Positive news?" I repeated. "I have hoard no news whatever since learning' that he had been here." " Well," said Do Mouille slowly, between puffs of his pipe, "I have heard just a word—a little hint, nothing more. It was in connection with old Moisson, of the Deux Voisins. Do you remember the Deux Voisius, and our good times there? Ah, somehow the place is not what it was—so many old faces are gone. 'Tempores mutantur,' etc., you know. Alas!" and his bright fae* prew momentarily dLrmal with his sigh. " But what about old Moisson and his bints?" I asked, with sudden interest, pausing in my work. •'Ah, there! I should not have said it," replied my 1 companion, with a deprecatory gesture. "It was a hint, an idea. Old Moisson—you will remember his interest in art, though thero was no art in( his head or his hand—but you recollect the story, and how he drifted into beinj the keeper of a cabaret by profession, but a connoisseur of art and a patron of artists by predilection. Have you ever confined your struggles to his sympathy in your past days? Have you ever given him a picture to pay your' score? Name of a dog! I have, often." " But about the hints?" I said anxiouslv.

"Nothing yet—truly, nothing of value"as yet. Only I heard that your friend had been lounging about the Deux Vodsins. May it not be that he consulted our good Moisson—perhaps to some purpose—for Moisson has still a fondness for interesting himself in tbo troubles of others, and, on occasion, of doing them a good turn. I shall go to Moisson and pump him—but very judiciously, you understand." " Let me go with you," I said, in some excitement.

" Assuredly not. I must go alone. I shall stroll over there for a petit verre this evening, and then you can call on me later. on—say, after eight o'clock. I shall be in there, for that insane American is to come to me to explain some of his droll, crackbrained inventions; so bon jour for the present, my dear Bruno," concluded De Mouille, suddenly, going out. Bruno, I may say, was the nickname conferred upon me by general consent, and derived from Le Brun, by which latter name, again a translation of my first incognito, Brown,| I thought it better to be known. In my student days my nickname had been La Riche, an appellation of double application, inasmuch as it was first intended to be a play upon my proper name of Richard, and, besides, conveyed the flattering estimation of ample means, deemed to be deserved by the fact that I was never noticeably hard up ill those student days. But the reputation of possessing means was not. a difficult one to obtain in such a community, j Filled with impatience, I went early that evening to De Mouille's quarters, which were situated a few streets off. I was well before the appointed time, and in the courtyard of the house when* he lodged I met a small crowd, in the centre of -which was Linden.

"Is De Mouille in yet?" I shouted to him in English. "Hullo! Is that you?" ho shouted back, also in English. " No; he's not in yet—• won't b<4 in for some time. But do come and look at my Franco-American motor car. When I patent it I shall call it ' The Two Eagles.'" I pushed my way through the small crowd of laughing and chattering idlers, who were listening to Linden, as in very bad but voluble French he expatiated on '**>s construction and working of his automobile. The crowd, which consisted of students, girls, children, and miscellaneous idlers, chaffed him and criticised his invention with good-humored sarcasm, but he was well able to defend its.supposed merits. As for me, I examined the machine with quite unintelligent interesti while I. listened to his mixed languages. I did not understand motor cars, and they had little interest fcr me. *

I was relieved when at length De Mouille joined us, and Linden, who lived in the same house, with the help of some of) hia audience, rolled the machine into shelter, and with me followed De Mouille up to his studio at the top of tho house. I controlled my impatience as best I could while the master of the studio lit his lamp, and set a tin kettle to boil on the oil stove. "We can have coffee in a minute or two; meanwhile here are cigarettes and tobacco," he said.

We smoked for some minutes in the badlylighted and rather dismal studio while Linden talked about his invention. De Mouille was silent, and evidently out of humor. As he handed me my coffee, I anxiously asked him the news. "Peste! none," he said shortly. "Have you spoken to Moisson?" " Yes, certainly. I was very skilful, very discreet.' But the old pig of a pig shut up like an oyster when he saw that I wanted information. I have nearly sickened myself drinking a litre of his vile wine.' "Pish ! don't let us talk of it."-

" But," I asked anxiously, " could he not give you any informatiDn?" ..,_ I " Sapristi! Very possibly he could," said De Mouille, " but he would not. When I asked hitn about your.friend, giving a care; , ful description, he-said: Surely yes, he had

ho had been there lately, and often.' Djd he know anythinjr more? Perhaps, »b4t Monsieur De Mouille had to remember tb|fl: he (Moisson) never, gave information of hjs customers' doings or whereabouts. Whcjje'. would his honor be- if he-did that? Ho had some excellent wine which he wanted to gvjt rid of soon, to make room for his new': stock. If we came to him we would always be welcome, and perhaps wo might' come across our friend there at any time. Ajtd that was all—absolutely all —I could get out of the old beast," concluded Be Mouille, with a gesture of .disgust. > There was nothing, more to be said, and soon I, left the studio, deeply; disappointed and dejected. For some timo after that I took to hannting the Oabarefi des Deux Vodsins, and, patronising old Moisson's f wine, but without any return for the * sicp"' fice of •drinking such wine . in 'aj dilapidated inn like, the Deux Voians, situated in an unpleasant slum. And such; pi. my friends as relieved me in the watch were equally unsuccessful. But old Mois«m was not again pumped, by any of us, for to attempt such a thing was deemed an indiscreet and even dangerous step. When De Mouille first raised my expectations about the Deux Toisins some time had elapsed since my arrival in Paris. May had gone out; June had come and also gone. Now we had passed July, and were; in the middle of August, At first, in the : interest of pleasant surroundings, I had not noted the lapse of lime; but now, when I looked back on all those wa«*ed wt eks, my heart sank. Nothing bad been discovered, nothing done. I was seemingly, as far from the solution of my troubles, a« I ever had been. In a way I was worse .placed than when I had set out ' on my quest-. I had put myself in a, very difficult position, and had caused additional anxiety to my dear sister. I had regularly communicated, through Mr Barton, with Nellie, and she had written several arari.ous letters addressed to me in my incognito;' She was getting very, very anxious, and desired mo to return, and let everything" enmo right of itself in time. But I know that her anxiety .was divided, and that if I returned her Suspense about Fred would be tenfold. And then I had vowed iwt to return without fulfilling my mission, and I would keep my vow. But yet another trouble weighed heavily upon me. Since I bad come to Paris I had held no communication with Beatrice. What would she think of me by now ? If my absence had been of short duration it would not have mattered ; but she must long since have got to suspect its significance. I thought of my solemn promise to her; no other obligation had seemed so sacred, and yet I had betrayed my promise. And then I loved her, and dreamt of her always. How could I face her 'again after my com pact with her, without confessing everything? I felt that I could do neither; I must find Fred, and afterwards her wishes would bo carried out.

" Prom July the summer dulneps had como over the Quartier The schools were, shut, and the number of the students had thinned out. Fortunately for me, my specioi friends did not leave. Gautier had too much to do at present to permit of a holiday, Twhilo Jjemaitre umd De Mouillo ■were finding the seasoa a specially profitable one, and were ■very busy supplying the dealers with small paintings for sale to the summer tourists. v Liinden, to.-», stayed on. Meanwhile Paris -was given cvtr to excessive heat and dust—and tourists, with guide book in band, swarmed everywhere. It was the show city of the summer, the playground of foreigner?, given over to them. Any Parisian who. was anybody, arid who could afford it, wo.* elsewhere (hen.'

I was feeling .disheartened, dejected, and listless in my room one hot day, # idling with the clay, but thinking dismally of that otl>er neglected and almost forgotten work, my Ariadne, thnfc -was to baive been the work of my soul, -when" Gautier burst in upon me.

" I am almost dead with the heat," he eaid, throwing himself down on a chair and panting. " Ihank heaven, I can at last take a holiday." ; " Oh," I said, not very courteously. " Yes, I have done as much of my work, aa I can at present, and I am going to' take a week or two off. I shall start for Ostend the day after, to-morrow. I want the sea to revive me. But we must have a little, dinner all together before I go—say to-morrow night, ■ Y.3i, Lemaitre, De "Mouille, Linden, and one Sr two others. Where would* you -wish to dine?" "

"The Cabaret, des Deux Voisins," I said on an inspiration.-

Gautier laughed. " Well, my good Bruno, \ do not admire your choice; but old Moissoo can eqpply .a good dinner and good wine when he likes. And he must do so this time. Let it be the Detuc Voisins, then." The next evening the five of us met in Gautier'a room —a couple more were to meet us at the tavern—and set out, arm in arm, and in jubilant spirits, for the scene of the dinner. So far as locality was concerned, the choice I had made wcs not a very select one, for the Deux Voisins was situated in a back street bidden away in the dismal, almost squalid, locality that lies between the Pantheon and the prison c:f See. Pelagie, Tiie inn had had a long reputation, which it had not quite outgrown. It was very old, very quaint, very dilapidated, and also very dirty, but all in a romantic way, thai made it still the favorite haunt of students and kindred spirits. And then the liost was decidedly a character, and that counted for a great deal. He-claimed descent from, one of the original founders, the "Two Neighbors," whose memory is perpetuated in its name. According to the story, two woollen merchants, neighbors, losing almost their all in the troubled times of the great revolution, restored their fortunes by the happy exjwdient of combining their liouses and purses at the last moment, and setting up a* innkeepers. Such was the genesis of the Deux Voisins.

" Behold our house of entertainment!" cried Gautier, somewhat mockingly, as we entered a narrow street, ill-anelling -and paved with big round stones, and lined with big-eaved, dilapidated houses. And the biggest—eavod and most dilapidated of all —was that at which ho pointed as he spoke. ' (To be continued.)