So saying, she lifted a dark green curtain, beneath which they passed to a farther room out of sight and hearing.

They remained a long time away.  So long, that I grew weary of waiting, and, having turned over all the illustrated books upon the table, and examined every painting on the walls, turned to the window, as the idler’s last resource, and watched the passers-by.

What endless entertainment in the life-tide of a Paris street, even though but a branch from one of the greater arteries!  What color—­what character—­what animation—­what variety!  Every third or fourth man is a blue-bloused artisan; every tenth, a soldier in a showy uniform.  Then comes the grisette in her white cap; and the lemonade-vender with his fantastic pagoda, slung like a peep-show across his shoulders; and the peasant woman from Normandy, with her high-crowned head-dress; and the abbe, all in black, with his shovel-hat pulled low over his eyes; and the mountebank selling pencils and lucifer-matches to the music of a hurdy-gurdy; and the gendarme, who is the terror of street urchins; and the gamin, who is the torment of the gendarme; and the water-carrier, with his cart and his cracked bugle; and the elegant ladies and gentlemen, who look in at shop windows and hire seats at two sous each in the Champs Elysees; and, of course, the English tourist reading “Galignani’s Guide” as he goes along.  Then, perhaps, a regiment marches past with colors flying and trumpets braying; or a fantastic-looking funeral goes by, with a hearse like a four-post bed hung with black velvet and silver; or the peripatetic showman with his company of white rats establishes himself on the pavement opposite, till admonished to move on by the sergent de ville.  What an ever-shifting panorama!  What a kaleidoscope of color and character!  What a study for the humorist, the painter, the poet!

Thinking thus, and watching the overflowing current as it hurried on below, I became aware of a smart cab drawn by a showy chestnut, which dashed round the corner of the street and came down the Rue Castellane at a pace that caused every head to turn as it went by.  Almost before I had time to do more than observe that it was driven by a moustachioed and lavender-kidded gentleman, it drew up before the house, and a trim tiger jumped down, and thundered at the door.  At that moment, the gentleman, taking advantage of the pause to light a cigar, looked up, and I recognised the black moustache and sinister countenance of Monsieur de Simoncourt.

“A gentleman for Monsieur le Vicomte,” said the servant, drawing back the green curtain and opening a vista into the room beyond.

“Ask him to come upstairs,” said the voice of De Caylus from within.

“I have done so, Monsieur; but he prefers to wait in the cabriolet.”

“Pshaw!—­confound it!—­say that I’m coming.”

The servant withdrew.

I then heard the words “perfectly safe investment—­present convenience—­unexpected demand,” rapidly uttered by Monsieur de Caylus; and then they both came back; he looked flushed and angry—­she calm as ever.