The Rue Feydeau, as idlers about town are aware, is a place of pilgrimage for youths who for lack of a mistress bestow their ardent affection upon the whole sex.  On the first floor of the most rigidly respectable domicile therein dwelt one of those exquisite creatures whom it has pleased heaven to endow with the rarest and most surpassing beauty.  As it is impossible that they should all be duchesses or queens (since there are many more pretty women in the world than titles and thrones for them to adorn), they are content to make a stockbroker or a banker happy at a fixed price.  To this good-natured beauty, Euphrasia by name, an unbounded ambition had led a notary’s clerk to aspire.  In short, the second clerk in the office of Maitre Crottat, notary, had fallen in love with her, as youth at two and twenty can fall in love.  The scrivener would have murdered the Pope and run amuck through the whole sacred college to procure the miserable sum of a hundred louis to pay for a shawl which had turned Euphrasia’s head, at which price her waiting woman had promised that Euphrasia should be his.  The infatuated youth walked to and fro under Madame Euphrasia’s windows, like the polar bears in their cage at the Jardin des Plantes, with his right hand thrust beneath his waistcoat in the region of the heart, which he was fit to tear from his bosom, but as yet he had only wrenched at the elastic of his braces.

“What can one do to raise ten thousand francs?” he asked himself.  “Shall I make off with the money that I must pay on the registration of that conveyance?  Good heavens! my loan would not ruin the purchaser, a man with seven millions!  And then next day I would fling myself at his feet and say, ’I have taken ten thousand francs belonging to you, sir; I am twenty-two years of age, and I am in love with Euphrasia—­that is my story.  My father is rich, he will pay you back; do not ruin me!  Have not you yourself been twenty-two years old and madly in love?’ But these beggarly landowners have no souls!  He would be quite likely to give me up to the public prosecutor, instead of taking pity upon me.  Good God! if it were only possible to sell your soul to the Devil!  But there is neither a God nor a Devil; it is all nonsense out of nursery tales and old wives’ talk.  What shall I do?”

“If you have a mind to sell your soul to the Devil, sir,” said the house painter, who had overheard something that the clerk let fall, “you can have the ten thousand francs.”

“And Euphrasia!” cried the clerk, as he struck a bargain with the devil that inhabited the house painter.

The pact concluded, the frantic clerk went to find the shawl, and mounted Madame Euphrasia’s staircase; and as (literally) the devil was in him, he did not come down for twelve days, drowning the thought of hell and of his privileges in twelve days of love and riot and forgetfulness, for which he had bartered away all his hopes of a paradise to come.