shopkeepers in Paris
have discarded them at their weddings. One very unusual thing appeared,
which caused much talk in Issoudun, namely, a rush-matting on the
stairs, no doubt to muffle the sound of feet. In fact, though Max was
in the habit of coming in at daybreak, he never woke any one, and
Rouget was far from suspecting that his guest was an accomplice in the
nocturnal performances of the Knights of Idleness.

About eight o'clock the next morning, Flore, wearing a dressing-gown
of some pretty cotton stuff with narrow pink stripes, a lace cap on her
head, and her feet in furred slippers, softly opened the door of Max's
chamber; seeing that he slept, she remained standing beside the bed.

"He came in so late!" she said to herself. "It was half-past three. He
must have a good constitution to stand such amusements. Isn't he strong,
the dear love! I wonder what they did last night."

"Oh, there you are, my little Flore!" said Max, waking like a
soldier trained by the necessities of war to have his wits and his
self-possession about him the instant that he waked, however suddenly it
might happen.

"You are sleepy; I'll go away."

"No, stay; there's something serious going on."

"Were you up to some mischief last night?"

"Ah, bah! It concerns you and me and that old fool. You never told me
he had a family! Well, his family are coming,--coming here,--no doubt to
turn us out, neck and crop."

"Ah! I'll shake him well," said Flore.

"Mademoiselle Brazier," said Max gravely, "things are too serious for
giddiness. Send me my coffee; I'll take it in bed, where I'll think over
what we had better do. Come back at nine o'clock, and we'll talk about
it. Meanwhile, behave as if you had heard nothing."

Frightened at the news, Flore left Max and went to make his coffee; but
a quarter of an hour later, Baruch burst into Max's bedroom, crying out
to the grand master,--

"Fario is hunting for his barrow!"

In five minutes Max was dressed and in the street, and though he
sauntered along with apparent indifference, he soon reached the foot of
the tower embankment, where he found quite a collection of people.

"What is it?" asked Max, making his way through the crowd and reaching
the Spaniard.

Fario was a withered little man, as ugly as though he were a
blue-blooded grandee. His fiery eyes, placed very close to his nose
and piercing as a gimlet, would have won him the name of a sorcerer in
Naples. He seemed gentle becau