yourself."

Our conversation, or rather his monologue, was here interrupted by the
ringing of the outer bell.

The artist sat up, took his pipe from his lips, and looked considerably
disturbed.

"_Mille tonnerres_!" said he in a low tone. "Who can it be?... so early
in the day ... not yet ten o'clock ... it is very mysterious."

"It is only mysterious," said I, "as long as you don't open the door.
Shall I answer the bell?"

"No--yes--wait a moment ... suppose it is that demon, my landlord, or
that archfiend, my tailor--then you must say ... holy St. Nicholas! you
must say I am in bed with small-pox, or that I've broken out suddenly
into homicidal delirium, and you're my keeper."

"Unfortunately I should not know either of your princes of darkness at
first sight."

"True--and it might be Dupont, who owes me thirty francs, and swore by
the bones of his aunt (an excellent person, who keeps an estaminet in
the Place St. Sulpice) that he would pay me this week. _Diable_! there
goes the bell again."

"It would perhaps be safest," I suggested, "to let M. or N. ring on till
he is tired of the exercise."