and easy, and the ceilings twelve feet high.

"Of course, we know M. Favoral," answered every one to the servant's
questions; "and, if there ever was an honest man, why, he is
certainly the one. There is a man whom you could trust with your
funds, if you had any, without fear of his ever running off to
Belgium with them." And it was further explained, that M. Favoral
was chief cashier, and probably, also, one of the principal
stockholders, of the Mutual Credit Society, one of those admirable
financial institutions which have sprung up with the second empire,
and which had won at the bourse the first installment of their
capital, the very day that the game of the Coup d'Etat was being
played in the street.

"I know well enough the gentleman's business," remarked the servant;
"but what sort of a man is he? That's what my cousin would like to
know."

The wine-man at No. 43, the oldest shop-keeper in the street, could
best answer. A couple of petits-verres politely offered soon started
his tongue; and, whilst sipping his Cognac:

"M. Vincent Favoral," he began, "is a man some fifty-two or three
years old, but who looks younger, not having a single gray hair. He
is tall and thin, with neatly-trimmed whiskers, thin lips, and small
yellow eyes; not talkative. It takes more ceremony to get a word
from his throat than a dollar from his pocket. 'Yes,' 'no,'
'good-morning,' 'good-evening;' that's about the extent of his
conversation. Summer and winter, he wears gray pantaloons, a long
frock-coat, laced shoes, and lisle-thread gloves. 'Pon my word, I