n the basement of a cabaret, while an old Bohemian with long
gray hair, standing before them, sang something about "Liberty,"
accompanying himself on a guitar about the color of bouillon--the scenes
of Chardin and Van Ostade.

Suddenly I stopped.

One of these personal pictures had caught my eye by its domestic and
charming simplicity.

[Illustration]

She looked so happy and peaceful in her quiet little room, the dear old
lady in her black gown and widow's cap, leaning back in an easy-chair
covered with green Utrecht velvet, and sitting quietly with her hands
folded on her lap. Everything around her was so old and simple, and
seemed to have been preserved, less through a wise economy than on
account of hallowed memories, since the honey-moon with monsieur of the
high complexion, in a frock-coat and flowered waistcoat, whose oval
crayon ornamented the wall. By two lamps on the mantle-shelf every
detail of the old-fashioned furniture could be distinguished, from the
clock on a fish of artificial and painted marble to the old and
antiquated piano, on which, without doubt, as a young girl, in
leg-of-mutton sleeves and with hair dressed _a la Grecque_, she had
played the airs of Romagnesi.

Certainly a loved and only daughter, remaining unmarried through her
affection for her mother, piously watched over the last years of the
widow. It was she, I was sure, who had so tenderly placed her dear
mother; she who had put the ottoman under her feet, she who had put near
her the inlaid table, and arranged on it the waiter and two cups. I
expected already to see her coming in carrying the evening coffee--the
sweet, calm girl, who should be dressed in mourning like the widow, and
resemble her very much.

Absorbed by the contemplation of a scene so sympathetic, and by the
pleasure of imagining that humble poem, I remained standing some steps
from the open window, sure of not being noticed in the dusky street,
when I saw a door open and there appeared--oh, how far he was from my
thoughts at that moment--my friend Meurtrier himself, the formidable
hero of tilts on the river and frays in unknown places.

A sudden doubt crossed me. I felt that I was on the point of discovering
a mystery.

It was indeed he. His terrible hairy hand held a tiny silver coffee-pot,
and he was followed by a poodle which greatly embarrassed his steps--a
valiant and classic poodle, the poodle of blind clarionet-players, a
poor beggar's poodle, a poodle