The Prince entered, and, crossing the entry in two steps, found himself in a small dining-room opening directly out of the kitchen, where three tiny little children were playing, the youngest, who could not have been more than eighteen months, crawling about on the floor.  Upon the ragged oilcloth which covered the table, Zilah noticed two pairs of men’s gloves, one gray, the other yellow, and a heap of soiled white cravats.  Upon a wooden chair, by the open door of the kitchen, was a tub full of shirts, which the young woman had doubtless been washing when the bell rang.

The cries Zilah had heard came from the children, who were now silent, staring at the tall gentleman, who looked at them in surprise.

The young woman was small and very pretty, but with the pallor of fatigue and overwork; her lips were beautifully chiselled, but almost colorless; and she was so thin that her figure had the frail appearance of an unformed girl.

“Will you sit down, Monsieur?” she asked, timidly, advancing a cane-bottomed chair.

Everything in these poor lodgings was of the most shabby description.  In a cracked mirror with a broken frame were stuck cards of invitation, theatre checks, and race tickets admitting to the grand stand.  Upon a cheap little table with broken corners was a heap of New Year’s cards, bonbon boxes, and novels with soiled edges.  Upon the floor, near the children, were some remnants of toys; and the cradle in which the baby slept at night was pushed into a corner with a child’s chair, the arms of which were gone.

Zilah was both astonished and pained.  He had not expected to encounter this wretched place, the poorly clad children, and the woman’s timid smile.

“Is Monsieur Jacquemin at home?” he asked abruptly, desiring to leave at once if the man whom he sought was not there.

“No, Monsieur; but he will not be long away.  Sit down, Monsieur, please!”

She entreated so gently, with such an uneasy air at the threatened departure of this man who had doubtless brought some good news for her husband, that the Prince mechanically obeyed, thinking again that there was evidently some mistake, and that it was not, it could not be, here that Jacquemin lived.

“Is it really your husband, Madame, who writes under the signature of Puck in ’L’Actualite’?” he asked.  The same proud smile appeared again upon her thin, wan face.

“Yes, Monsieur, yes, it is really he!” she replied.  She was so happy whenever any one spoke to her of her Paul.  She was in the habit of taking copies of L’Actualite to the concierge, the grocer, and the butcher; and she was so proud to show how well Paul wrote, and what fine connections he had—­her Paul, whom she loved so much, and for whom she sat up late at night when it was necessary to prepare his linen for some great dinner or supper he was invited to.

“Oh! it is indeed he, Monsieur,” she said again, while Zilah watched her and listened in silence.  “I don’t like to have him use pseudonyms, as he calls them.  It gives me so much pleasure to see his real name, which is mine too, printed in full.  Only it seems that it is better sometimes.  Puck makes people curious, and they say, Who can it be?  He also signed himself Gavroche in the Rabelais, you know, which did not last very long.  You are perhaps a journalist also, Monsieur?”