We did not wait for a second invitation, but went in immediately.  It was a long, low, dark room, with a pale gleam of fading daylight struggling in through a tiny window at the farther end.  We could see nothing at first but this gleam; and it was not till Guichet had raked out the wood ashes on the hearth, and blown them into a red glow with his breath, that we could distinguish the form or position of anything in the room.  Then, by the flicker of the fire, we saw a low truckle-bed close under the window; a kind of bruised and battered seaman’s chest in the middle of the room; a heap of firewood in one corner; a pile of old packing-cases; old sail-cloth, old iron, and all kinds of rubbish in another; a few pots and pans over the fire-place; and a dilapidated stool or two standing about the room.  Avoiding these latter, we set ourselves down upon the edge of the chest; while Guichet, having by this time lit a piece of candle-end in a tin sconce against the wall, stood before us with folded arms, and stared at us in silence.

“I want to know, Guichet, if you can give me some sittings,” said Mueller, by way of opening the conversation.

“Depends on when, M’sieur Mueller,” growled the model.

“Well—­next week, for the whole week.”

Guichet shook his head.  He was engaged to Monsieur Flandrin la bas, for the next month, from twelve to three daily, and had only his mornings and evenings to dispose of; in proof of which he pulled out a greasy note-book and showed where the agreement was formally entered.  Mueller made a grimace of disappointment.

“That man’s head takes a deal of cutting off, mon ami,” he said.  “Aren’t you tired of playing executioner so long?”

“Not I, M’sieur!  It’s all the same to me—­executioner or victim, saint or devil.”

Mueller, laughing, offered him a cigar.

“You’ve posed for some queer characters in your time, Guichet,” said he.

“Parbleu, M’sieur!”

“But you’ve not been a model all your life?”

“Perhaps not, M’sieur.”

“You’ve been a sailor once upon a time, haven’t you?”

The model looked up quickly.

“How did you know that?” he said, frowning.

“By a number of little things—­by this, for instance,” replied Mueller, kicking his heels against the sea-chest; “by certain words you make use of now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat. Que diable! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!”

The model shook his head.

“I don’t understand it,” he said, slowly.

“Nay, I could tell you more than that if I liked,” said Mueller, with an air of mystery.

“About myself?”

“Ay, about yourself, and others.”

Guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips.

“What others?” he asked, with a look half of dull bewilderment and half of apprehension.