“’Good, good!  Do you remember our first escapade, in Bordeaux, after that dinner at Routie’s?  What a spree!’

“I did, indeed, remember that spree; and the recollection of it cheered me up.  This called to mind other pranks.  He would say: 

“’Say, do you remember the time when we locked the proctor up in old man Latoque’s cellar?’

“And he laughed and banged the table with his fist, and then he continued: 

“’Yes-yes-yes-and do you remember the face of the geography teacher, M. Marin, the day we set off a firecracker in the globe, just as he was haranguing about the principal volcanoes of the earth?’

“Then suddenly I asked him: 

“‘And you, are you married?’

“He exclaimed: 

“’Ten years, my boy, and I have four children, remarkable youngsters; but you’ll see them and their mother.’

“We were talking rather loud; the people around us looked at us in surprise.

“Suddenly my friend looked at his watch, a chronometer the size of a pumpkin, and he cried: 

“’Thunder!  I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave you; I am never free at night.’

“He rose, took both my hands, shook them as though he were trying to wrench my arms from their sockets, and exclaimed: 

“‘So long, then; till to-morrow noon!’

“‘So long!’

“I spent the morning working in the office of the collector-general of the Department.  The chief wished me to stay to luncheon, but I told him that I had an engagement with a friend.  As he had to go out, he accompanied me.

“I asked him: 

“‘Can you tell me how I can find the Rue du Coq-qui-Chante?’

“He answered: 

“‘Yes, it’s only five minutes’ walk from here.  As I have nothing special to do, I will take you there.’

“We started out and soon found ourselves there.  It was a wide, fine-looking street, on the outskirts of the town.  I looked at the houses and I noticed No. 17.  It was a large house with a garden behind it.  The facade, decorated with frescoes, in the Italian style, appeared to me as being in bad taste.  There were goddesses holding vases, others swathed in clouds.  Two stone cupids supported the number of the house.

“I said to the treasurer: 

“‘Here is where I am going.’

“I held my hand out to him.  He made a quick, strange gesture, said nothing and shook my hand.

“I rang.  A maid appeared.  I asked: 

“‘Monsieur Patience, if you please?’

“She answered: 

“‘Right here, sir.  Is it to monsieur that you wish to speak?’

“‘Yes.’

“The hall was decorated with paintings from the brush of some local artist.  Pauls and Virginias were kissing each other under palm trees bathed in a pink light.  A hideous Oriental lantern was ranging from the ceiling.  Several doors were concealed by bright hangings.

“But what struck me especially was the odor.  It was a sickening and perfumed odor, reminding one of rice powder and the mouldy smell of a cellar.  An indefinable odor in a heavy atmosphere as oppressive as that of public baths.  I followed the maid up a marble stairway, covered with a green, Oriental carpet, and was ushered into a sumptubus parlor.