Two soldiers, who have been calling on two of the daughters, come
up to the studio and kindly offer their assistance. There is no time to
lose, and in single file the procession starts down the atelier stairs,
headed by Pere Valois, who has just returned from his fruitless search
considerably winded, and the three girls, the two red-trousered soldiers
and myself tugging away at the rest of the baggage.

It is not often one departs with the assistance of three pretty femmes
de menage, a jolly old concierge, and a portion of the army of the
French Republic. With many suggestions from my good friends and an
assuring wave of the hand from the aged cocher, my luggage is roped and
chained to the top of the rickety, little old cab, which sways and
squeaks with the sudden weight, while the poor, small horse, upon whom
has been devolved the task of making the 11.35 train, Gare St. Lazare,
changes his position wearily from one leg to the other. He is evidently
thinking out the distance, and has decided upon his gait.

"Bon voyage!" cry the three girls and Pere Valois and the two soldiers,
as the last trunk is chained on.

The dingy vehicle groans its way slowly out of the court. Just as it
reaches the last gate it stops.

"What's the matter?" I ask, poking my head out of the window.

"Monsieur," says the aged cocher, "it is an impossibility! I regret very
much to say that your bicycle will not pass through the gate."

A dozen heads in the windows above offer suggestions. I climb out and
take a look; there are at least four inches to spare on either side in
passing through the iron posts.

"Ah!" cries my cocher enthusiastically, "monsieur is right, happily for
us!"

He cracks his whip, the little horse gathers itself together--a moment
of careful driving and we are through and into the street and rumbling
away, amid cheers from the windows above. As I glance over my traps, I
see a small bunch of roses tucked in the corner of my roll of rugs with
an engraved card attached. "From Mademoiselle Ernestine Valois," it
reads, and on the other side is written, in a small, fine hand, "Bon
voyage."

I look back to bow my acknowledgment, but it is too late; we have turned
the corner and the rue Vaugirard is but a memory!

* * * * *

But why go on telling you of what the little shops contain--how narrow
and picturesque are the small streets--how gay the boulevards--what they
do at the "Bullier"--or where th