all the powers of his mind to the devising and inflicting of those discomforts, is a mystery which we, the audience, are never permitted to penetrate.  Enough that Charles, being a youth of mischievous tastes and extensive wardrobe, assumes a series of disguises for the express purpose of tormenting Monsieur Choufleur, and is unaccountably rewarded in the end with the hand of Monsieur Choufleur’s daughter; a consummation which brings down the curtain amid loud applause, and affords entire satisfaction to everybody.

It is by this time close upon midnight, and, leaving the theatre with the rest of the audience, we find a light rain falling.  The noisy thoroughfare is hushed to comparative quiet.  The carriages that roll by are homeward bound.  The waiters yawn at the doors of the cafes and survey pedestrians with a threatening aspect.  The theatres are closing fast, and a row of flickering gas-lamps in front of a faded transparency which proclaims that the juvenile Tableaux Vivants are to be seen within, denotes the only place of public amusement yet open to the curious along the whole length of the Boulevart du Temple.

“And now, amigo, where shall we go?” says Mueller.  “Are you for a billiard-room or a lobster supper?  Or shall we beat up the quarters of some of the fellows in the Quartier Latin, and see what fun is afoot on the other side of the water?”

“Whichever you please.  You are my guest to-night, and I am at your disposal.”

“Or what say you to dropping in for an hour among the Chicards?”

“A capital idea—­especially if you again entertain the society with a true story of events that never happened.”

“Allons donc!—­

     ’C’etait de mon temps
     Que brillait Madame Gregoire. 
     J’allais a vingt ans
     Dans son cabaret rire et boire.’

—­confound this drizzle!  It soaks one through and through, like a sponge.  If you are no fonder of getting wet through than I am, I vote we both run for it!”

With this he set off running at full speed, and I followed.

The rain soon fell faster and thicker.  We had no umbrellas; and being by this time in a region of back-streets, an empty fiacre was a prize not to be hoped for.  Coming presently to a dark archway, we took shelter and waited till the shower should pass over.  It lasted longer than we had expected, and threatened to settle into a night’s steady rain.  Mueller kept his blood warm by practicing extravagant quadrille steps and singing scraps of Beranger’s ballads; whilst I, watching impatiently for a cab, kept peering up and down the street, and listening to every sound.

Presently a quick footfall echoed along the wet pavement, and the figure of a man, dimly seen by the blurred light of the street-lamps, came hurrying along the other side of the way.  Something in the firm free step, in the upright carriage, in the height and build of the passer-by, arrested my attention.  He drew nearer.  He passed under the lamp just opposite, and, as he passed, flung away the end of his cigar, which fell, hissing, into the little rain-torrent running down the middle of the street.  He carried no umbrella; but his hat was pulled low, and his collar drawn up, and I could see nothing of his face.  But the gesture was enough.