A DINNER AT THE MAISON DORÉE AND AN EVENING PARTY IN THE QUARTIER LATIN.
The most genial of companions was our new acquaintance, Franz Müller,
the art-student. Light-hearted, buoyant, unassuming, he gave his animal
spirits full play, and was the life of our little dinner. He had more
natural gayety than generally belongs to the German character, and his
good-temper was inexhaustible. He enjoyed everything; he made the best
of everything; he saw food for laughter in everything. He was always
amused, and therefore was always amusing. Above all, there was a
spontaneity in his mirth which acted upon others as a perpetual
stimulant. He was in short, what the French call a _bon garçon_, and the
English a capital fellow; easy without assurance, comic without
vulgarity, and, as Sydney Smith wittily hath it--"a great number of
other things without a great number of other things."
Upon Dalrymple, who had been all day silent, abstracted, and unlike his
usual self, this joyous influence acted like a tonic. As entertainer, he
was bound to exert himself, and the exertion did him good. He threw off
his melancholy; and with the help, possibly, of somewhat more than his
usual quantity of wine, entered thoroughly into the passing joyousness
of the hour. What a _recherché_, luxurious extravagant little dinner it
was, that evening at the Maison Dorée! We had a charming little room
overlooking the Boulevard, furnished with as much looking-glass,
crimson-velvet, gilding, and arabesque painting as could be got together
within the space of twelve-feet by eight. Our wine came to table in a
silver cooler that Cellini might have wrought. Our meats were served
upon porcelain that would have driven Palissy to despair. We had nothing
that was in season, except game, and everything that was out; which,
by-the-way, appears to be our modern criterion of excellence with
respect to a dinner. Finally, we were waited upon by the most imposing
of waiters--a waiter whose imperturbable gravity was not to be shaken by
any amount of provocation, and whose neckcloth alone was sufficient to
qualify him for the church.
How merry we were! How Müller tormented that diplomatic waiter! What
stories we told! what puns we made! What brilliant things we said, or
fancied we said, over our Chambertin and Johannisberger! Müller knew
nothing of the substratum of sadness underlying all that jollity. He
little thought how heavy Dalrymple's strong heart had been that morning.
He had no idea that my friend and I were to part on the morrow, for
months or years, as the case might be--he to carry his unrest hither and
thither through distant lands; I to remain alone in a strange city,
pursuing a distasteful study, and toiling onward to a future without
fascination or hope. But, as the glass seals tell us, "such is life." We
are all mysteries to one another. The pleasant fellow whom I invite to
dinner because he amuses me, carries a scar on his soul which it would
frighten me to see; and he in turn, when he praises my claret, little
dreams of the carking care that poisons it upon my palate, and robs it
of all its aroma. Perhaps the laughter-loving painter himself had his
own little tragedy locked up in some secret corner of the heart that
seemed to beat so lightly under that braided blouse of Palais Royal cut
and Quartier Latin fashion! Who could tell? And of what use would it be,
if it were told? Smiles carry one through the world more agreeably than
tears, and if the skeleton is only kept decently out of sight in its own
unsuspected closet, so much the better for you and me, and society
at large.
Dinner over, and the serious waiter dismissed with the dessert and the
empty bottles, we sat by the open window for a long time, sipping our
coffee, smoking our cigars, and watching the busy life of the Boulevard
below. There the shops were all alight and the passers-by more numerous
than by day. Carriages were dashing along, full of opera-goers and
ball-room beauties. On the pavement just under our window were seated
the usual crowd of Boulevard idlers, sipping their _al fresco_ absinthe,
and _grog-au-vin._ In the very next room, divided from us by only a
slender partition, was a noisy party of young men and girls. We could
hear their bursts of merriment, the chinking of their glasses as they
pledged one another, the popping of the champagne corks, and almost the
very jests that passed from lip to lip. Presently a band came and played
at the corner of an adjoining street. All was mirth, all was life, all
was amusement and dissipation both in-doors and out-of-doors, in the
"care-charming" city of Paris on that pleasant September night; and we,
of course, were gay and noisy, like our neighbors. Dalrymple and Müller
could scarcely be called new acquaintances. They had met some few times
at the _Chicards_, and also, some years before, in Rome. What stories
they told of artists whom they had known! What fun they made of
Academic dons and grave professors high in authority! What pictures they
drew, of life in Rome--in Vienna--in Paris! Though we had no ladies of
our party and were only three in number, I am not sure that the
merry-makers in the next room laughed any louder or oftener than we!
At length the clock on the mantelpiece warned us that it was already
half-past nine, and that we had been three hours at dinner. It was
clearly time to vary the evening's amusement in some way or other, and
the only question was what next to do? Should we go to a billiard-room?
Or to the Salle Valentinois? Or to some of the cheap theatres on the
Boulevard du Temple? Or to the Tableaux Vivants? Or the Café des
Aveugles? Or take a drive round by the Champs Elysées in an open fly?
At length Müller remembered that some fellow-students were giving a
party that evening, and offered to introduce us.
"It is up five pairs of stairs, in the Quartier Latin," said he; "but
thoroughly jolly--all students and grisettes. They'll be delighted
to see us."
This admirable proposition was no sooner made than acted upon; so we
started immediately, and Dalrymple, who seemed to be well acquainted
with the usages of student-life, proposed that we should take with us a
store of sweetmeats for the ladies.
"There subsists," observed he, "a mysterious elective affinity between
the grisette and the chocolate bon-bon. He who can skilfully exhibit the
latter, is almost certain to win the heart of the former. Where the
chocolate fails, however, the _marron glacé_ is an infallible specific.
I recommend that we lay in a liberal supply of both weapons."
"Carried by acclamation," said Müller. "We can buy them on our way, in
the Rue Vivienne. A capital shop; but one that I never patronize--they
give no credit."
Chatting thus, and laughing, we made our way across the Boulevard and
through a net-work of by-streets into the Rue Vivienne, where we laid
siege to a great bon-bon shop--a gigantic depot for dyspepsia at so
much per kilogramme--and there filled our pockets with sweets of every
imaginable flavor and color. This done, a cab conveyed us in something
less than ten minutes across the Pont Neuf to the Quartier Latin.
Müller's friends were three in number, and all students--one of art, one
of law, and one of medicine. They lodged at the top of a dingy house
near the Odéon, and being very great friends and very near neighbors
were giving this entertainment conjointly. Their names were Gustave,
Jules, and Adrien. Adrien was the artist, and lived in the garret, just
over the heads of Gustave and Jules, which made it very convenient for a
party, and placed a _suite_ of rooms at the disposal of their visitors.
Long before we had achieved the five pairs of stairs, we heard the sound
of voices and the scraping of a violin, and on the fifth landing were
received by a pretty young lady in a coquettish little cap, whom Müller
familiarly addressed as Annette, and who piloted us into a very small
bed-room which was already full of hats and coats, bonnets, shawls, and
umbrellas. Having added our own paletots and beavers to the general
stock, and having each received a little bit of pasteboard in exchange
for the same, we were shown into the ball-room by Mademoiselle Annette,
who appeared to fill the position of hostess, usher, and general
superintendent.
It was a good-sized room, somewhat low in the ceiling, and brilliantly
lighted with lots of tallow candles in bottles. The furniture had all
been cleared out for the dancers, except a row of benches round the
walls, and a chest of draws in a recess between the windows which served
as a raised platform for the orchestra. The said orchestra consisted of
a violin and accordion, both played by amateurs, with an occasional
_obligato_ on the common comb. As for the guests, they were, as Müller
had already told us, all students and grisettes--the former wearing
every strange variety of beard and blouse; the latter in pretty
light-colored muslins and bewitching little caps, with the exception of
two who wore flowers in their hair, and belonged to the opera ballet.
They were in the midst of a tremendous galop when we arrived; so we
stood at the door and looked on, and Dalrymple flirted with Mademoiselle
Annette. As soon as the galop was over, two of our hosts came forward to
welcome us.
"The Duke of Dalrymple and the Marquis of Arbuthnot--Messieurs Jules
Charpentier and Gustave Dubois," said Müller, with the most _dégagé_ air
in the world.
Monsieur Jules, a tall young man with an enormous false nose of the
regular carnival pattern, and Monsieur Gustave, who was short and stout,
with a visible high-water mark round his throat and wrists, and curious
leather mosaics in his boots, received us very cordially, and did not
appear to be in the least surprised at the magnificence of the
introduction. On the contrary, they shook hands with us; apologized for
the absence of Adrien, who was preparing the supper upstairs; and
offered to find us partners for the next valse. Dalrymple immediately
proposed for the hand of Mademoiselle Annette. Müller, declining
adventitious aid, wandered among the ladies, making himself universally
agreeable and trusting for a partner to his own unassisted efforts. For
myself, I was indebted to Monsieur Gustave for an introduction to a very
charming young lady whose name was Josephine, and with whom I fell over
head and ears in love without a moment's warning.
She was somewhat under the middle height, slender, supple, rosy-lipped,
and coquettish to distraction. Her pretty mouth dimpled round with
smiles at every word it uttered. Her very eyes laughed. Her hair, which
was more adorned than concealed by a tiny muslin cap that clung by some
unseen agency to the back of her head, was of a soft, warm, wavy brown,
with a woof of gold threading it here and there. Her voice was perhaps a
little loud; her conversation rather childish; her accent such as would
scarcely have passed current in the Faubourg St. Germain--but what of
that? One would be worse than foolish to expect style and cultivation in
a grisette; and had I not had enough to disgust me with both in Madame
de Marignan? What more charming, after all, than youth, beauty, and
lightheartedness? Were Noel and Chapsal of any importance to a mouth
that could not speak without such a smile as Hebe might have envied?
I was, at all events, in no mood to take exception to these little
defects. I am not sure that I did not even regard them in the light of
additional attractions. That which in another I should have called
_bête_, I set down to the score of _naïveté_ in Mademoiselle
Josephine. One is not diffident at twenty--by the way, I was now
twenty-one--especially after dining at the Maison Dorée.
Mademoiselle Josephine was frankness itself. Before I had enjoyed the
pleasure of her acquaintance for ten minutes, she told me she was an
artificial florist; that her _patronne_ lived in the Rue Ménilmontant;
that she went to her work every morning at nine, and left it every
evening at eight; that she lodged _sous les toits_ at No. 70, Rue
Aubry-le-Boucher; that her relations lived at Juvisy; and that she went
to see them now and then on Sundays, when the weather and her funds
permitted.
"Is the country pretty at Juvisy, Mademoiselle?" I asked, by way of
keeping up the conversation.
"Oh, M'sieur, it is a real paradise. There are trees and fields, and
there is the Seine close by, and a château, and a park, and a church on
a hill, ... _ma foi!_ there is nothing in Paris half so pretty; not even
the Jardin des Plantes!"
"And have you been there lately?"
"Not for eight weeks, at the very least, M'sieur. But then it costs
three francs and a half for the return ticket, and since I quarrelled
with Emile...."
"Emile!" said I, quickly. "Who is he?"
"He is a picture-frame maker, M'sieur, and works for a great dealer in
the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. He was my sweetheart, and he took me out
somewhere every Sunday, till we quarrelled."
"And what did you quarrel about, Mademoiselle?"
My pretty partner laughed and tossed her head.
"Eh, _mon Dieu_! he was jealous."
"Jealous of whom?"
"Of a gentleman--an artist--who wanted to paint me in one of his
pictures. Emile did not like me to go to his _atelier_ so often; and the
gentleman gave me a shawl (such a pretty shawl!) and a canary in a
lovely green and gold cage; and...."
"And Emile objected ?"
"Yes, M'sieur."
"How very unreasonable!"
"That's just what I said, M'sieur."
"And have you never seen him since!"
"Oh, yes--he keeps company now with my cousin Cecile, and she humors him
in everything,"
"And the artist--what of him, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, I sat to him every day, till his picture was finished. _Il était
bien gentil_. He took me to the theatre several times, and once to a
fête at Versailles; but that was after Emile and I had broken it off."
"Did you find it tiresome, sitting as a model?"
"_Mais, comme ci, et comme ça_! It was a beautiful dress, and became me
wonderfully. To be sure, it was rather cold!"
"May I ask what character you were supposed to represent, Mademoiselle?"
"He said it was Phryne. I have no idea who she was; but I think she must
have found it very uncomfortable if she always wore sandals, and went
without stockings."
I looked down at her little foot, and thought how pretty it must have
looked in the Greek sandal. I pictured her to myself in the graceful
Greek robe, with a chalice in her hand and her temples crowned with
flowers. What a delicious Phryne! And what a happy fellow Praxiteles
must have been!
"It was a privilege, Mademoiselle, to be allowed to see you in so
charming a costume," I said, pressing her hand tenderly. "I envy that
artist from the bottom of my heart."
Mademoiselle Josephine smiled, and returned the pressure.
"One might borrow it," said she, "for the Bal de l'Opéra."
"Ah, Mademoiselle, if I dared only aspire to the honor of conducting
you!"
"_Dame_! it is nearly four months to come!"
"True, but in the meantime, Mademoiselle----"
"In the meantime," said the fair Josephine, anticipating my hopes with
all the unembarrassed straightforwardness imaginable, "I shall be
delighted to improve M'sieur's acquaintance."
"Mademoiselle, you make me happy!"
"Besides, M'sieur is an Englishman, and I like the English so much!"
"I am delighted to hear it, Mademoiselle. I hope I shall never give you
cause to alter your opinion."
"Last galop before supper!" shouted Monsieur Jules through, a brass
speaking-trumpet, in order to make use of which he was obliged to hold
up his nose with one hand. "Gentlemen, choose your partners. All couples
to dance till they drop!"
There were a dozen up immediately, amongst whom Dalrymple and
Mademoiselle Annette, and Müller with one of the ballet ladies, were the
first to start. As for Josephine, she proved to be a damsel of
forty-galop power. She never wanted to rest, and she never cared to
leave off. She did not even look warm when it was over. I wonder to this
day how it was that I did not die on the spot.
When the galop was ended, we all went upstairs to Monsieur Adrien's
garret, where Monsieur Adrien, who had red hair and wore glasses,
received us in person, and made us welcome. Here we found the supper
elegantly laid out on two doors which had been taken off their hinges
for the purpose; but which, being supported from beneath on divers boxes
and chairs of unequal heights, presented a painfully sloping surface,
thereby causing the jellies to look like leaning towers of Pisa, and the
spongecake (which was already professedly tipsy) to assume an air so
unbecomingly convivial that it might almost have been called drunk.
Nobody thought of sitting down, and, if they did, there were no means of
doing so; for Monsieur Adrien's garret was none of the largest, and, as
in a small villa residence we sometimes see the whole house sacrificed
to a winding staircase, so in this instance had the whole room been
sacrificed to the splendor of the supper. For the inconvenience of
standing, we were compensated, however, by the abundance and excellence
of the fare. There were cold chickens, meat-pies, dishes of sliced ham,
pyramids of little Bologna sausages, huge rolls of bread a yard in
length, lobster salad, and cold punch in abundance.
The flirtations at supper were tremendous. In a bachelor establishment
one cannot expect to find every convenience, and on this occasion the
prevailing deficiencies were among the plates and glasses; so those who
had been partners in the dance now became partners in other matters,
eating off the same plate and drinking out of the same tumbler; but this
only made it so much the merrier. By and by somebody volunteered a song,
and somebody else made a speech, and then we went down again to the
ball-room, and dancing recommenced.
The laughter now became louder, and the legs of the guests more vigorous
than ever. The orchestra, too, received an addition to its strength in
the person of a gentleman who, having drunk more cold punch than was
quite consistent with the preservation of his equilibrium, was still
sober enough to oblige us with a spirited accompaniment on the shovel
and tongs, which, with the violin and accordion, and the comb _obligato_
before mentioned, produced a startling effect, and reminded one of
Turkish marches, Pantomime overtures, and the like barbaric music.
In the midst of the first polka, however, we were interrupted by a
succession of furious double knocks on the floor beneath our feet. We
stopped by involuntary consent--dancers, musicians, and all.
"It's our neighbor on the story below," said Monsieur Jules. "He objects
to the dancing."
"Then we'll dance a little heavier, to teach him better taste," said a
student, who had so little hair on his head and so much on his chin,
that he looked as if his face had been turned upside down. "What is the
name of the ridiculous monster?"
"Monsieur Bobinet."
"Ladies and gentlemen, let us dance for the edification of Monsieur
Bobinet! Orchestra, strike up, in honor of Monsieur Bobinet! One, two,
three, and away!"
Hereupon we uttered a general hurrah, and dashed off again, like a herd
of young elephants. The knocking ceased, and we thought that Monsieur
Bobinet had resigned himself to his fate, when, just as the polka ended
and the dancers were promenading noisily round and round the room, the
bombardment began afresh; and this time against the very door of the
ball-room.
"_Par exemple_!" cries Monsieur Jules. "The enemy dares to attack us in
our own lines!"
"Bolt the door, and let him knock till he's tired," suggested one.
"Open it suddenly, and deluge him with water!" cried another.
"Tar and feather him!" proposed a third.
In the meantime, Monsieur Bobinet, happily ignorant of these agreeable
schemes for his reception, continued to thunder away upon the outer
panels, accompanying the raps with occasional loud coughs, and hems, and
stampings of the feet.
"Hush! do nothing violent," cried Müller, scenting a practical joke.
"Let us invite him in, and make fun of him. It will be ever so much
more amusing!"
And with this he drove the rest somewhat back and threw open the door,
upon the outer threshold of which, with a stick in one hand and a
bedroom candle in the other, and a flowered dressing-gown tied round his
ample waist by a cord and tassels, stood Monsieur Bobinet.
Müller received him with a profound bow, and said:--
"Monsieur Bobinet, I believe?"
Monsieur Bobinet, who was very bald, very cross, and very stout, cast
an irritable glance into the room, but, seeing so many people, drew back
and said:--
"Yes, that is my name, Monsieur. I lodge on the fourth floor...."
"But pray walk in, Monsieur Bobinet," said Müller, opening the door
still wider and bowing still more profoundly.
"Monsieur," returned the fourth-floor lodger, "I--I only come to
complain...."
"Whatever the occasion of this honor, Monsieur," pursued the student,
with increasing politeness, "we cannot suffer you to remain on the
landing. Pray do us the favor to walk in."
"Oh, walk in--pray walk in, Monsieur Bobinet," echoed Jules, Gustave,
and Adrien, all together.
The fourth-floor lodger hesitated; took a step forward; thought,
perhaps, that, since we were all so polite, he would do his best to
conciliate us; and, glancing down nervously at his dressing-gown and
slippers, said:--
"Really, gentlemen, I should have much pleasure, but I am not
prepared...."
"Don't mention it, Monsieur Bobinet," said Müller. "We are delighted to
receive you. Allow me to disembarrass you of your candle."
"And permit me," said Jules, "to relieve you of your stick."
"Pray, Monsieur Bobinet, do you never dance the polka?" asked Gustave.
"Bring Monsieur Bobinet a glass of cold punch," said Adrien.
"And a plate of lobster salad," added the bearded student.
Monsieur Bobinet, finding the door already closed behind him, looked
round nervously; but encountering only polite and smiling faces,
endeavored to seem at his ease, and to put a good face upon the matter.
"Indeed, gentlemen, I must beg you to excuse me," said he. "I never
drink at night, and I never eat suppers. I only came to request...."
"Nay, Monsieur Bobinet, we cannot suffer you to leave us without taking
a glass of cold punch," pursued Müller.
"Upon my word," began the lodger, "I dare not...."
"A glass of white wine, then?"
"Or a cup of coffee?"
"Or some home-made lemonade?"
Monsieur Bobinet cast a look of helpless longing towards the door.
"If you really insist, gentlemen," said he, "I will take a cup of
coffee; but indeed...."
"A cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet!" shouted Müller.
"A large cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet!" repeated Jules.
"A strong cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet!" cried Gustave, following
up the lead of the other two.
The fourth-floor lodger frowned and colored up, beginning to be
suspicious of mischief. Seeing this, Müller hastened to apologize.
"You must pardon us, Monsieur Bobinet," he said with the most winning
amiability, "if we are all in unusually high spirits to-night. You are
not aware, perhaps, that our friend Monsieur Jules Charpentier was
married this morning, and that we are here in celebration of that happy
event. Allow me to introduce you to the bride."
And turning to one of the ballet ladies, he led her forward with
exceeding gravity, and presented her to Monsieur Bobinet as Madame
Charpentier.
The fourth-floor lodger bowed, and went through the usual
congratulations. In the meantime, some of the others had prepared a mock
sofa by means of two chairs set somewhat wide apart, with a shawl thrown
over the whole to conceal the space between. Upon one of these chairs
sat a certain young lady named Louise, and upon the other Mam'selle
Josephine. As soon as it was ready, Muller, who had been only waiting
for it, affected to observe for the first time that Monsieur Bobinet was
still standing.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he exclaimed, "has no one offered our visitor a chair?
Monsieur Bobinet, I beg a thousand pardons. Pray do us the favor to be
seated. Your coffee will be here immediately, and these ladies on the
sofa will be delighted to make room for you."
"Oh yes, pray be seated, Monsieur Bobinet," cried the two girls. "We
shall be charmed to make room for Monsieur Bobinet!"
More than ever confused and uncomfortable, poor Monsieur Bobinet bowed;
sat down upon the treacherous space between the two chairs; went through
immediately; and presented the soles of his slippers to the company in
the least picturesque manner imaginable. This involuntary performance
was greeted with a shout of wild delight.
"Bravo, Monsieur Bobinet!"
"_Vive_ Monsieur Bobinet!"
"Three cheers for Monsieur Bobinet!"
Scarlet with rage, the fourth-floor lodger sprang to his feet and made a
rush to the door; but he was hemmed in immediately. In vain he stormed;
in vain he swore. We joined hands; we called for music; we danced round
him; we sang; and at last, having fairly bumped and thumped and hustled
him till we were tired, pushed him out on the landing, and left him
to his fate.
After this interlude, the mirth grew fast and furious. _Valse_ succeeded
_valse_, and galop followed galop, till the orchestra declared they
could play no longer, and the gentleman with the shovel and tongs
collapsed in a corner of the room and went to sleep with his head in the
coal-scuttle. Then the ballet-ladies were prevailed upon to favor us
with a _pas de deux_; after which Müller sang a comic song with a
chorus, in which everybody joined; and then the orchestra was bribed
with hot brandy-and-water, and dancing commenced again. By this time the
visitors began to drop away in twos and threes, and even the fair
Josephine, to whom I had never ceased paying the most devoted attention,
declared she could not stir another step. As for Dalrymple, he had
disappeared during supper, without a word of leave-taking to any one.
Matters being at this pass, I looked at my watch, and found that it was
already half-past six o'clock; so, having bade good-night, or rather
good-morning, to Messieurs Jules, Gustave, and Adrien, and having, with
great difficulty, discovered my own coat and hat among the miscellaneous
collection in the adjoining bed-room, I prepared to escort Mademoiselle
Josephine to her home.
"Going already?" said Müller, encountering us on the landing, with a
roll in one hand and a Bologna sausage in the other.
"Already! Why, my dear fellow, it is nearly seven o'clock!"
"_Qu'importe_? Come up to the supper-room and have some breakfast!"
"Not for the world!"
"Well, _chacun à son goût_. I am as hungry as a hunter."
"Can I not take you any part of your way?"
"No, thank you. I am a Quartier Latinist, _pur sang_, and lodge only a
street or two off. Stay, here is my address. Come and see me--you can't
think how glad I shall be!"
"Indeed, I will come---and here is my card in exchange. Good-night, Herr
Müller."
"Good-night, Marquis of Arbuthnot. Mademoiselle Josephine, _au
plaisir_."
So we shook hands and parted, and I saw my innamorata home to her
residence at No. 70, Rue Aubry le Boucher, which opened upon the Marché
des Innocents. She fell asleep upon my shoulder in the cab, and was only
just sufficiently awake when I left her, to accept all the _marrons
glacés_ that yet remained in the pockets of my paletot, and to remind me
that I had promised to take her out next Sunday for a drive in the
country, and a dinner at the Moulin Rouge.
The fountain in the middle of the Marché was now sparkling in the
sunshine like a shower of diamonds, and the business of the market was
already at its height. The shops in the neighboring streets were opening
fast. The "iron tongue" of St. Eustache was calling the devout to early
prayer. Fagged as I was, I felt that a walk through the fresh air would
do me good; so I dismissed the cab, and reached my lodgings just as the
sleepy _concierge_ had turned out to sweep the hall, and open the
establishment for the day. When I came down again two hours later,
after a nap and a bath, I found a _commissionnaire_ waiting for me.
"_Tiens_!" said Madame Bouïsse (Madame Bouïsse was the wife of the
_concierge_). "_V'la_! here is M'sieur Arbuthnot."
The man touched his cap, and handed me a letter.
"I was told to deliver it into no hands but those of M'sieur himself,"
said he.
The address was in Dalrymple's writing. I tore the envelope open. It
contained only a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily in pencil,
were the following words:
"To have said good-bye would have made our parting none the lighter. By
the time you decipher this hieroglyphic I shall be some miles on my way:
Address Hôtel de Russie, Berlin. Adieu, Damon; God bless you. O.D."
"How long is it since this letter was given to you?" said I, without
taking my eyes from the card.
The _commissionnaire_ made no reply. I repeated the question, looked up
impatiently, and found that the man was already gone.