the waltz as Daddy Tantaine entered the hall. The
scene was a most animated one, and the air heavy with the scent of beer
and tobacco, and would have asphyxiated any one not used to venture into
such places.

It was the first time that he had ever visited the Grand Turk, and
yet any one observing would have sworn that he was one of the regular
frequenters as he marched idly through the rooms, making constant pauses
at the bar. But glance around him as he might, he could see neither Toto
Chupin nor Caroline Schimmel.

"Have I come here for nothing," muttered he, "or is the hour too early?"

It was hard to waste time thus, but at last he sat down and ordered some
beer. His eyes wandered to a large picture on the wall, representing a
fat, eastern-looking man, with a white turban and loose, blue garments,
seated in a crimson chair, with his feet resting upon a yellow carpet.
One hand was caressing his protuberant paunch, while the other was
extended toward a glass of beer. Evidently this is the Grand Turk. And
finally by an odalisque, who fills his goblet with the foaming infusion
of malt and hops. This odalisque is very fair and stout, and some fair
Alsatian damsel has evidently sat as the model. As Tantaine was gazing
upon this wondrous work of art he heard a squeaking voice just behind
him.

"That is certainly that young rogue Chupin," muttered he.

He turned sharply round, and two tables off, in a dark corner, he
discovered the young gentleman that he had been looking for. As he
gazed on the lad, he was not surprised that he had not recognized him
at first, for Toto had been strangely transmogrified, and in no degree
resembled the boy who had shivered in a tattered blouse in the archway
near the Servants' Registry Office. He was now gorgeous to behold. From
the moment that he had got his hundred francs he had chalked out a new
line of life for himself, and was busy pursuing it. He had found that
he could make all his friends merry, and he had succeeded. He had made a
selection from the most astounding wares that the Parisian tailor keeps
on hand. He had sneered at young Gaston de Gandelu, and called him
an ape; but he had aped the ape. He wore a very short, light coat, a
waistcoat that was hideous from its cut and brilliancy, and trousers
strapped tightly under his feet. His collar was so tall and stiff, that
he had the greatest difficulty in turning his head. He had gone to a
barber, and his lank hair had been ar