IV.

THE next morning, in order the better
to execute his project unobserved, Henri
Blaireau set off to the Rue de la Grande
Friperie, where he bought at one of the
numerous second-hand shops in that useful
quarter, a three-cornered military hat and
a long, grey dragoon–cloak, which last,
though it had seen at least twenty years'
service, was declared by the conscientious
merchant who sold it to be better than new.
Wrapping himself closely in his dragoon's
costume, he then proceeded to the Rue Saint
Martin, and carefully reconnoitred Monsieur
Gombert's house once more. Daylight
enabled him to discover what had been hidden
by the darkness of night, the very thing he
desired: on one of the door-posts of the open
gateway was an écriteau announcing that a
garni, or furnished room, was to be let,
application to be made to the concierge. It
was not on the ground floor, for these were
the silk merchant's ware-rooms; neither was
it on the first floor (the house had no
entresol), for there were located Monsieur
Gombert and his family; neither was it on
the third floor but without stopping at
every landing-place, let us climb at once to
the top of the staircase, open the door of a
chamber, familiarly termed a mansard or
garret, and there we have the joli apartement,
bien meublé, as the concierge poetically
described it. What furnished it well,
consisted of a truckle bed without hangings, two
rickety chairs and a still more rickety
table; what made it handsome was, perhaps,
the flooring of red tiles which, in spite of
their colour, did not make the room look
warm. It was, in short, a wretched hole,
and Henri Blaireau shivered as he cast his
eyes round it, but then he was under the
same roof with the maid he loved, and that
reconciled him, of course, to its wretchedness.
He returned to the Ecu d'Argent, settled his
account, and loading an Auvergnat with his
own and his deceased friend's trunks—a
weight which the strongest mule might well
have refused to carry—finally installed himself
in his delectable abode.

But there was one obstacle to complete
concealment which no precaution could
overcome. If there be any particular spot on the
face of the globe, where gossip holds its
head-quarters, it is in a Paris porter's lodge,
and this was equally the fact in the reign of
Louis the Fifteenth as it is in the reign of
Napoleon the Third. The occupants of the
lodge at Monsieur Gombert's were Pierre
and Phrosine, an elderly couple, whose
surname was Le Pocheux: the former had been
for many years a soldier, the latter
everything in the menial line, and their marriage
has been as much an affaire de
convenance as if his father had called himself
De Rohan and hers De Montmorency.
Gossip was the staple of their intellectual
existence, and though there did not appear
to be much food for it in so simple a
circumstance as the hiring of a garret at
ten livres a quarter, yet the military externals
of the new lodger had fixed the attention
of Monsieur Pierre, whose scrutiny inclined
him to think that the dress and its wearer
did not altogether correspond: so much
baggage, too, was incompatible with the
condition of a person who took up his lodging
under the eaves; and, finally, Madame
Phrosine had taken particular notice of very white
hands, very bright eyes, and a very handsome
face, as far as the cocked hat and the
cape of the cloak allowed them to be visible.

The greatest ally of Monsieur and Madame
Le Pocheux was, naturally, Madame Petronille
(they never failed to salute each other
with the prefix which I have adopted), and
to her they imparted the news of the
stranger's arrival, accompanied by their own
enlightened commentaries. Gossip is the
mother of a great many children, and her
eldest-born is Curiosity. The old bonne
became curious about the mysterious dragoon,
and it was not long before her curiosity was
shared by Mademoiselle Gombert. To have
a peep at him, on the first opportunity, was
Petronille's expressed intention.

For the first hour or two after he was
established in his new quarters, Henri
Blaireau found occupation enough in trying
to make it look more habitable; but when
this process was at an end, and he found
that, stretch his neck as he might from his
solitary window (which only overlooked a
court-yard), he could see nothing of the
apartment in which Mademoiselle Gombert
resided, he began to get very impatient of
confinement, and yearned to approach her
more nearly. But to leave his room in broad
daylight would be to court unnecessary
observation, so he waited till it was dusk before
he issued from his den. Then, wearing the
attire on which he counted for disguise, in the
event of his meeting Monsieur Gombert, he
slowly descended the staircase, lingering at
every step as he drew near the first floor.
He had arrived at the last turning when he
observed some one standing in the doorway
of Monsieur Gombert's suite of rooms. There
was just light enough for him to see that it
was a woman; his heart at once told him who
it was,—and clearing the flight at a bound,
he stood before her. She did not alter her
position, but remained behind the shadow of
the door. He was encouraged to speak,
and after the ceremonious fashion of his
time and nation, took off his hat as he
did so; scarcely had he uttered a word,
before a violent scream saluted him, the
door was slammed in his face, and he heard
the cry of " Murder! " vociferated within, in
the shrillest of female tones.

He rushed down-stairs; and, the porte
cochère being not yet closed, reached the
street without detention.

Petronille, for she it was who had been