dining, and the other into the ball-room.  A motley crew collected there for the evening meal, and on Sundays it is next to impossible to procure a seat.  But the dining-room is the Grand Turk’s greatest attraction, for as soon as the dessert is over the head waiter makes a sign, and dishes and tablecloths are cleared away in a moment.  The dining-room becomes a cafe, and the click of dominoes gives way to the rattle of forks, while beer flows freely.  This, however, is nothing, for, at a second signal, huge folding doors are thrown open, and the strains of an orchestra ring out as an invitation to the ball, to which all diners are allowed free entrance.  Nothing is danced but round dances, polkas, mazurkas, and waltzes.

The German element was very strong at the Grand Turk, and if a gentleman wished to make himself agreeable to his fair partners, it was necessary for him, at any rate, to be well up in the Alsatian dialect.  The master of the ceremonies had already called upon the votaries of Terpsichore to take their places for the waltz as Daddy Tantaine entered the hall.  The scene was a most animated one, and the air heavy with the scent of beer and tobacco, and would have asphyxiated any one not used to venture into such places.

It was the first time that he had ever visited the Grand Turk, and yet any one observing would have sworn that he was one of the regular frequenters as he marched idly through the rooms, making constant pauses at the bar.  But glance around him as he might, he could see neither Toto Chupin nor Caroline Schimmel.

“Have I come here for nothing,” muttered he, “or is the hour too early?”

It was hard to waste time thus, but at last he sat down and ordered some beer.  His eyes wandered to a large picture on the wall, representing a fat, eastern-looking man, with a white turban and loose, blue garments, seated in a crimson chair, with his feet resting upon a yellow carpet.  One hand was caressing his protuberant paunch, while the other was extended toward a glass of beer.  Evidently this is the Grand Turk.  And finally by an odalisque, who fills his goblet with the foaming infusion of malt and hops.  This odalisque is very fair and stout, and some fair Alsatian damsel has evidently sat as the model.  As Tantaine was gazing upon this wondrous work of art he heard a squeaking voice just behind him.

“That is certainly that young rogue Chupin,” muttered he.

He turned sharply round, and two tables off, in a dark corner, he discovered the young gentleman that he had been looking for.  As he gazed on the lad, he was not surprised that he had not recognized him at first, for Toto had been strangely transmogrified, and in no degree resembled the boy who had shivered in a tattered blouse in the archway near the Servants’ Registry Office.  He was now gorgeous to behold.  From the moment that he had got his hundred francs he had chalked out a new line of life for himself,