Heaven knows, of cultivating the arid soil of the Pavé. See, it's a
glorious afternoon. Let's go somewhere."

"With all my heart. Where?"

"_Ah, mon Dieu! ça m'est égal_. Enghien--Vincennes--St.
Cloud--Versailles ... anywhere you like. Most probably there's a fête
going on somewhere, if we only knew where,"

"Can't we find out?"

"Oh, yes--we can drop into a Café and look at the _Petites Affiches_;
only that entails an absinthe; or we can go into the nearest Omnibus
Bureau and see the notices on the walls, which will be cheaper."

So we threaded our way along the narrow thoroughfares of the Ile de la
Cité, and came presently to an Omnibus Bureau on the Quai de l'Horloge,
overlooking the Pont Neuf and the river. Here the first thing we saw was
a flaming placard setting forth the pleasures and attractions of the
great annual fête at Courbevoie; a village on the banks of the Seine, a
mile or two beyond Neuilly.

"_Voilà, notre affaire_!" said Müller, gaily. "We can't do better than
steer straight for Courbevoie."

Saying which, he hailed a passing fiacre and bade the coachman drive to
the Embarcadère of the Rive Droite.

"We shall amuse ourselves famously at Courbevoie," he said, as we
rattled over the stones. "We'll dine at the Toison d'Or--an excellent