stock into a breast-pocket, and stretched himself out at full
length upon the bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement,
holding one of his ankles in each hand, and smoking peacefully.
There seemed to be some uncomfortable attraction of Monsieur
Rigaud's eyes to the immediate neighbourhood of that part of the
pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. They were so drawn
in that direction, that the Italian more than once followed them to
and back from the pavement in some surprise.

'What an infernal hole this is!' said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a
long pause. 'Look at the light of day. Day? the light of
yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years
ago. So slack and dead!'

It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in
the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen--nor
anything else.

'Cavalletto,' said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze
from this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their
eyes, 'you know me for a gentleman?'

'Surely, surely!'

'How long have we been here?'
'I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and
three days, at five this afternoon.'

'Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread
the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected