My friend was an enthusiastic metaphysician; and, resuming the subject with a zest, was soon plunged into the phenomena of thought, the action of the brain, and the vitality of the blood that sustained it.  As all conversant with the subject can readily believe, not many minutes elapsed before his artful sophistries proved the non-existence of heaven, hell, and even God himself.

M. Pontalba turned suddenly, and, drawing his chair close beside us, with an apology for the seeming intrusion, addressed the incipient skeptic: 

“Behind the iron bars of that dreariest of studies, a prison, a little weed once received the concentrated thought of a savant.  The covering of its stem, the first tender leaves, the development of the bud, the expansion of the flower—­each bewildering in its consummate propriety—­unfolded, in their turn, a system of laws in simplicity transcendent.  By the aid of a microscope, a ‘gillyflower’ was seen protecting a chrysalis.  Warm leaves cherished it, dainty juices aided its digestion, wholesome offshoots nourished it to maturity.  Eking out a scant existence between two granite flags, this insignificant waif reared a caterpillar.  What man are you, who can say there is no God?”

There was a pathos in his voice, and a tone of simple fervor, which gave that quiet old man the air of a priest.

It was more than a year afterward I took these rooms; but my establishment was of short duration ere I learned the history of an eventful morning which followed that incident:—­of how the placid face of the master peered among his people, beaming with a great joy; how a sumptuous feast was fitted up in the private office for all in the employ; of the two hundred francs, and a suit of clothes, presented to each; and how every one, from the little messenger to the gray cashier, with the rarest wine in the cellar, drank prosperity to the new-born son and heir, and much happiness to the mother,—­“God bless her!”

Once I saw a pony-carriage, with an aged, semi-military driver, pull up at the door, and the flutter of a veil as the vehicle passed through the entrance; and this was the only glimpse I ever caught of the little lady that dingy office called mistress.  There was, however, a certain briskness in the movement of the clerks, and a glow of pleasure on their faces, that always denoted a visit; and very frequent those visits were.  Without in any way obstructing it, her pretty interest seemed to throw a halo around the dull routine of trade; and, if there was any unpleasantness, the arrival of Jean Palliot, coachman and ex-grenadier, with Madame Althie Pontalba, was sure to drive it away.