day by day, induced me to stay longer than I had intended, and
rendered me spectator and part-actor in an adventure not uncommon in
French-land. My apartment was numbered 48--by the way, who ever saw
No. 1 in a hotel, or upon a watch?--and next door--that is, at No.
49--dwelt a very dignified-looking gentleman, always addressed as M.
Jerome. I often take occasion to say, that I pique myself on being
something of a physiognomist; and as I have been several times right
in my judgment of character and position from inspection of the
countenance, the occasions in which I have been mistaken may be set
down as exceptions. M. Jerome at once interested me; and as I was idly
in search of health, and had taken care to have nothing whatever to do
but to kill time, the observation of this gentleman's appearance and
manners naturally formed a chief part of my occupation.

I began by ascertaining exactly the colour of his eyes and
hair--nearly black; the shape of his nose--straight, and rather too
long; and would have been glad to examine the form of his mouth, but a
huge moustache hanging over his lips in the French military style--see
the portrait of General Cavaignac--prevented me from ascertaining the
precise contour of what one of my old philosophers calls the Port
Esquiline of Derision. M. Jerome was, upon the whole, a handsome man,
with a romantically bilious complexion; and the expression of his
large dark eyes was really profound and striking. His costume was
always fashionable, without being showy; and there was nothing to
object to but a diamond ring, somewhat too ostentatiously displayed on
the little finger, which, in all his manual operations, at dinner or
elsewhere, always cocked up with an impertinent 'look-at-me air,' that
I did not like. When, indeed, this dandy walked slowly out of the
dining-room to the door-step, and lighted his cigar, the said little
finger became positively obnoxious; and I used to think whether it
were possible that that human being had been created purposely as a
scaffolding whereon to exhibit a flashing little stone, set in twenty
shillings worth of gold.

M. Jerome, though not, strictly speaking, a silent man, was
sufficiently reserved at table. The early courses were by him always
allowed to pass without any further remark than what politeness
requires--as: 'Shall I send you some more of this _blanquette_?' or,
'With pleasure, sir;' and so forth. When dessert-time approached,
however, h