destined by Fate--always mysterious in her workings--to be united in a
narrative for the present volume.

Three evenings later the poet's concierge climbed the stairs and rapped
peremptorily at the door.

"Well?" cried Tricotrin, raising bloodshot eyes from the manuscript;
"who disturbs me now? Come in!"

"I have come in," panted madame Dubois, who had not waited for his
invitation, "and I am here to tell you, monsieur, that you cannot be
allowed to groan in this agonised fashion. Your lamentations can be
heard even in the basement."

"Is it in my agreement, madame, that I shall not groan if I am so
disposed?" inquired the poet haughtily.

"There are things tacitly understood. It is enough that you are in
arrears with your rent, without your doing your best to drive away the
other tenants. For two days they have all complained that it would be
less disturbing to reside in a hospital."

"Well, they have my permission to remove there," said Tricotrin. "Now
that the matter is settled, let me get on with my work!" And with the
groan of a soul in Hades, he perused another line.

"There you go again!" expostulated the woman angrily, "It is not to be
endured, monsieur. What is the matter with you, for goodness' sake?"

"With me, madame, there is nothing the matter; the fault lies with an