signs that we were nearing “Robinson Crusoe,” the land of rustic inns.  And, sure enough, here they all were:  “The old Robinson,” “The new Robinson,” “The real original Robinson,” “The only genuine Robinson,” “ROBINSON’s chestnut grove,” “Robinson’s paradise,” each unique and each authentic.  All alike have thatched porches, sanded paths, transparencies lighted with petroleum lamps, tinsel stars, summerhouses, arrangements for open-air illumination and highly colored advertisements, in which are set forth all the component elements of a “Robinson,” such as shooting-galleries, bowling-alleys, swings, private arbors, Munich beer, and dinner in a tree.

“Jupille!” exclaimed M. Flamaran, “you have shipwrecked us!  This is Crusoe’s land; and what the dickens do you mean by it?”

The old clerk, utterly discomfited, and wearing that hangdog look which he always assumed at the slightest rebuke from Counsellor Boule, pulled a face as long as his arm, went up to M. Flamaran and whispered a word in his ear.

“Upon my word!  Really, Jupille, what are you thinking of?  And I a professor, too!  Thirty years ago it would have been excusable, but to-day!  Besides, Sidonie expects me home to dinner—­”

He stopped for a moment, undecided, looking at his watch.

Jupille, who was eying him intently, saw his distinguished friend gradually relax his frown and burst into a hearty laugh.

“By Jove! it’s madness at my age, but I don’t care.  We’ll renew our youth for an hour or so.  My dear Mouillard, Jupille has ordered dinner for us here.  Had I been consulted I should have chosen any other place.  Yet what’s to be done?  Hunger, friendship, and the fact that I can’t catch the train, combine to silence my scruples.  What do you say?”

“That we are in for it now.”

“So be it, then.”  And led by Jupille, still carrying his catch, we entered the only genuine Robinson.

M. Flamaran, somewhat ill at ease, cast inquiring glances on the clearings in the sgrubberies.  I thought I heard stifled laughter behind the trees.

“You have engaged Chestnut Number Three, gentlemen,” said the proprietor.  “Up these stairs, please.”

We ascended a staircase winding around the trunk.  Chestnut Number 3 is a fine old tree, a little bent, its sturdy lower branches supporting a platform surrounded by a balustrade, six rotten wooden pillars, and a thatched roof, shaped like a cocked hat, to shelter the whole.  All the neighboring trees contain similar constructions, which look from a little distance like enormous nests.  They are greatly in demand at the dinner hour; you dine thirty feet up in the air, and your food is brought up by a rope and pulley.

When M. Flamaran appeared on the platform he took off his hat, and leaned with both hands on the railing to give a look around.  The attitude suggested a public speaker.  His big gray head was conspicuous in the light of the setting sun.