leather wallet a letter bearing a London stamp, upon which the
address, "To Mademoiselle Paquita Valdes, Rue Saint Lazare, Hotel
San-Real, Paris," was written in long, fine characters, which spoke
of a woman's hand.

"Could you tap a bottle of Chablis, with a few dozen oysters, and a
_filet saute_ with mushrooms to follow it?" said Laurent, who wished
to win the postman's valuable friendship.

"At half-past nine, when my round is finished---- Where?"

"At the corner of the Rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin and the Rue
Neuve-des-Mathurins, at the _Puits sans Vin_," said Laurent.

"Hark ye, my friend," said the postman, when he rejoined the valet an
hour after this encounter, "if your master is in love with the girl,
he is in for a famous task. I doubt you'll not succeed in seeing her.
In the ten years that I've been postman in Paris, I have seen plenty
of different kinds of doors! But I can tell you, and no fear of being
called a liar by any of my comrades, there never was a door so
mysterious as M. de San-Real's. No one can get into the house without
the Lord knows what counter-word; and, notice, it has been selected on
purpose between a courtyard and a garden to avoid any communication
with other houses. The porter is an old Spaniard, who never speaks a
word of French, but peers at people as Vidocq might, to see if they
are not thieves. If a lover, a thief, or you--I make no comparisons
--could get the better of this first wicket, well, in the first hall,
which is shut by a glazed door, you would run across a butler
surrounded by lackeys, an old joker more savage and surly even than
the porter. If any one gets past the porter's lodge, my butler comes