should say that he is still wearing the very same clothes I saw upon
his back for the first time in 1845, did I not know that he has two
full suits made every year by the concierge at No. 29, who is also a
tailor."

"Why, he must be an old miser," muttered the servant.

"He is above all peculiar," continued the shop-keeper, "like most
men of figures, it seems. His own life is ruled and regulated like
the pages of his ledger. In the neighborhood they call him Old
Punctuality; and, when he passes through the Rue Turenne, the
merchants set their watches by him. Rain or shine, every morning of
the year, on the stroke of nine, he appears at the door on the way
to his office. When he returns, you may be sure it is between twenty
and twenty-five minutes past five. At six he dines; at seven he goes
to play a game of dominoes at the Cafe Turc; at ten he comes home
and goes to bed; and, at the first stroke of eleven at the Church of
St. Louis, out goes his candle."

"Hem!" grumbled the servant with a look of contempt, "the question
is, will my cousin be willing to live with a man who is a sort of
walking clock?"

"It isn't always pleasant," remarked the wine-man; "and the best
evidence is, that the son, M. Maxence, got tired of it."

"He does not live with his parents any more?"

"He dines with them; but he has his own lodgings on the Boulevard du
Temple. The falling-out made talk enough at the time; and some