house for thirty years and I scarcely every go out."

"Lived in the same house for thirty years!" cried Madame Trepof;
"is it possible?"

"Yes, Madame," I answered. "But you must know the house is situated
on the bank of the Seine, and in the very handsomest and most famous
part of the world. From my window I can see the Tuileries and the
Louvre, the Pont-Neuf, the towers of Notre-Dame, the turrets of
the Palais de Justice, and the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle. All
those stones speak to me; they tell me stories about the days of
Saint-Louis, of the Valois, of Henri IV., and of Louus XIV. I
understand them, and I love them all. It is only a very small
corner of the world, but honestly, Madame, where is there a more
glorious spot?"

At this moment we found ourselves upon a public square--a largo
steeped in the soft glow of the night. Madame Trepof looked at
me in an uneasy manner; her lifted eyebrows almost touched the
black curls about her forehead.

"Where do you live then?" she demanded brusquely.

"On the Quai Malaquais, Madame, and my name is Bonnard. It is not
a name very widely known, but I am contented if my friends do not
forget it."

This revelation, unimportant as it was, produced an extraordinary
effect upon Madame Trepof. She immediately turned her back upon
me and caught her husband's arm.