the lamps in the Champs Elysees twinkling in long chains of light through the blank darkness before me, and no vehicle anywhere in sight.  To be caught in a heavy shower, was not, certainly, an agreeable prospect for one who had just emerged from the opera in the thinnest of boots and the lightest of folding hats, with neither umbrella nor paletot of proof; so, having given a hasty glance in every direction from which a cab might be expected, I took valiantly to my heels, and made straight for the Madeleine.

Long before I had accomplished half the distance, however, another flash announced the quick coming of the tempest, and the first premonitory drops began to plash down heavily upon the pavement.  Still I ran on, thinking that I should find a cab in the Place de la Madeleine; but the Place de la Madeleine was empty.  Even the cafe at the corner was closed.  Even the omnibus office was shut up, and the red lamp above the door extinguished.

What was I to do now?  Panting and breathless, I leaned up against a doorway, and resigned myself to fate.  Stay, what was that file of carriages, dimly seen through the rain which was now coming down in earnest?  It was in a private street opening off at the back of the Madeleine—­a street in which I could remember no public stand.  Perhaps there was an evening party at one of the large houses lower down, and, if so, I might surely find a not wholly incorruptible cabman, who would consent for a liberal pourboire to drive me home and keep his fare waiting, if need were, for one little half-hour!  At all events it was worth trying for; so away I darted again, with the wind whistling about my ears, and the rain driving in my face.

But my troubles were not to be so speedily ended.  Among the ten or fifteen equipages which I found drawn up in file, there was not one hackney vehicle.  They were private carriages, and all, therefore, inaccessible.

Did I say inaccessible?

A bold idea occurred to me.  The rain was so heavy that it could scarcely be expected to last many minutes.  The carriage at the very end of the line was not likely to be the first called; and, even if it were, one could spring out in a moment, if necessary.  In short, the very daring of the deed was as attractive as the shelter!  I made my way swiftly down the line.  The last carriage was a neat little brougham, and the coachman, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his collar drawn up about his ears, was too much absorbed in taking care of himself and his horses to pay much attention to a foot-passenger.  I passed boldly by—­doubled back stealthily on my own steps—­looked round cautiously—­opened the door, and glided in.