vampire--a ghoul--the hideous thing we call in polite parlance a _Fille
de Marbre."_

Thus, with much gravity and emphasis, spoke Herr Franz Müller, lying on
his back upon a very ricketty sofa, and smoking like a steam-engine. A
cup of half-cold coffee, and a bottle of rum three parts emptied stood
beside him on the floor. These were the remains of his breakfast; for it
was yet early in the morning of the day following my great misadventure
at the Opéra Comique, and I had sought him out at his lodgings in the
Rue Clovis at an hour when the Quartier Latin was for the most part
in bed.

"Josephine, at all events, is not of the stuff that _Filles de Marbre_
are made of," I said, smiling.

"Perhaps not--_mais, que voulez-vous?_ We are what we are. A grisette
makes a bad fine lady. A fine lady would make a still worse grisette.
The Archbishopric of Paris is a most repectable and desirable
preferment; but your humble servant, for instance, would hardly suit
the place,"

"And the moral of this learned and perspicuous discourse?"

"_Tiens_! the moral, is--keep our fair friend in her place. Remember
that a dinner at thirty sous in the Palais Royal, or a fête with
fireworks at Mabille, will give her ten times more pleasure than the
daintiest repast you could order at the Maison Dorée, or the choicest
night of the season at either opera house. And how should it be
otherwise? One must understand a thing to be able to enjoy it; and I'll
be sworn Mam'selle Josephine was infinitely more bored last night than