together in low whispers, or else hung over the piano
together. But every kind of agreeable existence comes to an end, and one
day Daddy Tantaine entered the room, his face radiant with delight.

"I have secured you the sweetest little nest in the world," cried he
merrily. "It is not so fine as this, but more in accordance with your
position."

"Where is it?" asked Paul.

Tantaine waited. "You won't wear out much shoe leather," said he,
"in walking to a certain banker's, for your lodgings are close to his
house."

That Tantaine had a splendid talent for arrangement Paul realized
as soon as he entered his new place of abode, which was in the Rue
Montmartre, and consisted of some neat, quiet rooms, just such as an
artist who had conquered his first difficulties would inhabit. The
apartments were on the third floor, and comprised a tiny entrance hall,
sitting-room, bed and dressing room. A piano stood near the window in
the sitting-room. The furniture and curtains were tasteful and in good
order, but nothing was new. One thing surprised Paul very much; he had
been told that the apartments had been taken and furnished three days
ago, and yet it seemed as if they had been inhabited for years, and that
the owner had merely stepped out a few minutes before. The unmade
bed, and the half-burnt candles in the sleeping-room added to this
impression, while on the rug lay a pair of worn slippers. The fire had
not gone out entirely, and a half-smoked cigar lay on the mantelpiece.

On the table in the sitting-room was a sheet of music paper, with a few
bars jotted down upon it. Paul felt so convinced that he was in another
person's rooms, that he could not help exclaiming, "But surely some one
has been living in these chambers."

"We are in your own home, my dear boy," said Tantaine.

"But you took over everything, I suppose, and the original proprietor
simply walked out?"

Tantaine smiled, as though an unequivocal compliment had been paid him.

"Why, do you not know your own home?" asked he; "you have been living
here for the last twelve months."

"I can't understand you," answered Paul, opening his eyes in
astonishment; "you must be jesting."

"I am entirely in earnest; for more than a year you have been
established here. If you want a proof of the correctness of my
assertion, call up the porter." He ran to the head of the staircase and
called out, "Come up, Mother Brigaut."

In a few moments a stout old woman came pa