g. After a year in
Devonshire Terrace the family had to wander again, going to Boulogne,
where they lived at the top of the Grand Rue. Here the artist said they
lived in a beautiful house, and had sunny hours and were happy.

Apropos of du Maurier's early homes, Sir Francis Burnand, in his
_Records and Reminiscences_, tells an amusing story, which, whilst of
necessity abbreviating, we shall try to give as nearly as possible in
his own words. Some members of the _Punch_ staff who, with the
proprietors, were visiting Paris during the Exhibition year of 1889,
took a drive in the neighbourhood of Passy. Du Maurier, who had not
stayed in Paris for some years, pointed out house after house as being
his birthplace. He started with the selection of a small but attractive
suburban residence, afterwards correcting himself and pointing to a
house much more attractive-looking than the first. Soon, however, the
puzzled expression which his companions had noticed in him before,
returned to his face, and he called a halt for the third time, pointing
to a large house in an extensive garden with a fountain. "No," he
exclaimed with conviction, "I was wrong. This is where I was born.
There's the fountain, there are the green shutters! and in _that_ room!"
The party descended again and poured out libations. After the sleepy
stage of a long drive had been reached, du Maurier awoke, and, as if
soliloquising, muttered, "No, no, I was wrong, absurdly wrong. But I see
my mistake." And he aroused his companions to view a fine mansion
approached by a drive.

"Yes," he exclaimed, "the other places were mistakes. It is so difficult
to remember the exact spot where one was born. But there can be no doubt
about this. _Cocher! Arretez! s'il vous plait_," he cried, and he was
about to open the door and descend, when William Bradbury, of the party,
stopped him.

"No, you don't, Kiki; you've been born in three or four places already,
and we've drunk your health in every one of 'em; so we won't do it again
till you've quite made up your mind where you _were_ born."

In vain du Maurier protested. "You bring us out for a holiday, you take
us about everywhere, and you won't let a chap be born where he likes."
But Mr. Bradbury was inexorable; the door was closed, the coachman
grinned, cracked his whip, and away they went, the party siding with Mr.
Bradbury in objecting to pulling up at every inn to toast the occasion.

Sir Francis speaks of what fun du M