“The treasury!” exclaimed my slim neighbor with the blue glasses.  “Beg your p—­p—­pardon, sir, but are you speaking of the Cathedral treasury?  Is it worth v—­v—­visiting?”

“Singularly so,” replied he to my right.  “One of the rarest collections of authentic curiosities in France.  They have the snuff-box of Clovis, the great toe of Saint Helena, and the tongs with which St. Dunstan took the devil by the nose.”

“Up—­p—­pon my word, now, that’s curious,” ejaculated the thin tourist, who had an impediment in his speech.  “I must p—­p—­put that down.  Dear me! the snuff-box of King Clovis!  I must see these relics to-morrow.”

“Be sure you ask for the great toe of St. Helena,” said my right hand companion, proceeding imperturbably with his dinner.  “The saint had but one leg at the period of her martyrdom, and that great toe is unique.”

“G—­g—­good gracious!” exclaimed the tourist, pulling out a gigantic note-book, and entering the fact upon the spot.  “A saint with one leg—­and a lady, too!  Wouldn’t m—­m—­miss that for the world!”

I looked round, puzzled by the gravity of my new acquaintance.

“Is this all true?” I whispered.  “You told me the treasury was a humbug.”

“And so it is.”

“But the snuff-box of Clovis, and....”

“Pure inventions!  The man’s a muff, and on muffs I have no mercy.  Do you stay long in Rouen?”

“No, I go on to Paris to-morrow.  I wish I could remain longer.”

“I am not sure that you would gain more from a long visit than from a short one.  Some places are like some women, charming, en passant, but intolerable upon close acquaintance.  It is just so with Rouen.  The place contains no fine galleries, and no places of public entertainment; and though exquisitely picturesque, is nothing more.  One cannot always be looking at old houses, and admiring old churches.  You will be delighted with Paris.”

“B—­b—­beautiful city,” interposed the stammerer, eager to join our conversation, whenever he could catch a word of it.  “I’m going to P—­P—­Paris myself.”

“Then, sir, I don’t doubt you will do ample justice to its attractions,” observed my right-hand neighbor.  “From the size of your note-book, and the industry with which you accumulate useful information, I should presume that you are a conscientious observer of all that is recondite and curious.”

“I as—­p—­pire to be so,” replied the other, with a blush and a bow.  “I m—­m—­mean to exhaust P—­P—­Paris.  I’m going to write a b—­b—­book about it, when I get home."’

My friend to the right flashed one glance of silent scorn upon the future author, drained the last glass of his Bordeaux-Leoville, pushed his chair impatiently back, and said:—­“This place smells like a kitchen.  Will you come out, and have a cigar?”

So we rose, took our hats, and in a few moments were strolling under the lindens on the Quai de Corneille.