The landlord’s eyes began to open.  There must be a courtship in progress.  It was very plain now why ’Sieur George had wished not to be accompanied by the rail gentleman; but since his visits had become regular and frequent, it was equally plain why he did not get rid of him;—­because it would not look well to be going and coming too often alone.  Maybe it was only this tender passion that the tall man had thought “better to bury.”  Lately there often came sounds of gay conversation from the first of the two rooms, which had been turned into a parlor; and as, week after week, the friends came down-stairs, the tall man was always in high spirits and anxious to embrace ’Sieur George, who,—­“sly dog,” thought the landlord,—­would try to look grave, and only smiled in an embarrassed way.  “Ah!  Monsieur, you tink to be varry conning; mais you not so conning as Kookoo, no;” and the inquisitive little man would shake his head and smile, and shake his head again, as a man has a perfect right to do under the conviction that he has been for twenty years baffled by a riddle and is learning to read it at last; he had guessed what was in ’Sieur George’s head, he would by and by guess what was in the trunk.

A few months passed quickly away, and it became apparent to every eye in or about the ancient mansion that the landlord’s guess was not so bad; in fact, that Mademoiselle was to be married.

On a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single hired hack drove up to the main entrance of the old house, and after some little bustle and the gathering of a crowd of damp children about the big doorway, ’Sieur George, muffled in a newly-repaired overcoat, jumped out and went up-stairs.  A moment later he re-appeared, leading Mademoiselle, wreathed and veiled, down the stairway.  Very fair was Mademoiselle still.  Her beauty was mature,—­fully ripe,—­maybe a little too much so, but only a little; and as she came down with the ravishing odor of bridal flowers floating about her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagan sacrifice.  The mulattress in holiday gear followed behind.

The landlord owed a duty to the community.  He arrested the maid on the last step:  “Your mistress, she goin’ pour marier ’Sieur George?  It make me glad, glad, glad!”

“Marry ’Sieur George?  Non, Monsieur.”

“Non?  Not marrie ’Sieur George? Mais comment?”

“She’s going to marry the tall gentleman.”

“Diable! ze long gentyman!”—­With his hands upon his forehead, he watched the carriage trundle away.  It passed out of sight through the rain; he turned to enter the house, and all at once tottered under the weight of a tremendous thought—­they had left the trunk!  He hurled himself up-stairs as he had done seven years before, but again—­“Ah, bah!!”—­the door was locked, and not a picayune of rent due.