tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe, as well as with other gentlemen
still happily with us in the flesh, to be too exact as to dates. Suffice
it, therefore, to say that it was only a few years ago that Mr.
Jacquetot sat one evening as usual in his little shop. It happened to be
a Tuesday evening, which is fortunate, because it was on Tuesdays and
Saturdays that the little barber from round the corner called and shaved
the vast cheeks of the tobacconist. Mr. Jacquetot was therefore quite
presentable--doubly so, indeed, because it was yet March, and he had not
yet entered upon his summer season.

The little street was very quiet. There was no through traffic, and
folks living in this quarter of Paris usually carry their own parcels.
It was thus quite easy to note the approach of any passenger, when such
had once turned the corner. Some one was approaching now, and Mr.
Jacquetot threw away the stump of a cheap cigar. One would almost have
said that he recognised the step at a considerable distance. Young
people are in the habit of considering that when one gets old and stout
one loses in intelligence; but this is not always the case. One is apt
to expect little from a fat man; but that is often a mistake. Mr.
Jacquetot weighed seventeen stone, but he was eminently intelligent. He
had recognised the footstep while it was yet seventy metres away.

In a few moments a gentleman of middle height paused in front of the
shop, noted that it was a tobacconist's, and entered, carrying an
unstamped letter with some ostentation. It must, by the way, be
remembered that in France postage-stamps are to be bought at all
tobacconists'.

The new-comer's actions were characterised by a certain carelessness, as
if he were going through a formula--perfunctorily--without admitting its