one, was now almost deserted, as was also the avenue, as it was yet too
early for vehicles of various sorts to be returning from the theatre.

The street-lamps on the corners had not yet been lighted. In front of
one of those old-fashioned houses which belong to a former Paris a heavy
iron lantern swung, creaking in the wind, and, battling with the
darkness, shed flickering rays of light on the child who, with a faded
red cotton shawl wrapped about her, was cowering in the deep doorway of
the house. From time to time there would emerge from the whirling
snowflakes the dark form of a man clad as a laborer. He would walk
leisurely toward the doorway in which the shivering child was concealed,
but would turn when he came to the circle of light cast on the snowy
pavement by the swinging lantern, and retrace his steps, thus appearing
and disappearing at regular intervals. Surely a singular time and place
for a promenade! The clocks struck ten--the hour which found every
honest dweller within the Quartier St. Martin at home. On this evening,
however, two belated citizens came from somewhere, their hurrying
footsteps noiseless in the deep snow, their approach announced only by
the lantern carried by one of them--an article without which no
respectable citizen at the beginning of the century would have ventured
on the street after nightfall. One of the pedestrians was tall and
broad-shouldered, with a handsome countenance, which bore the impress of
an inflexible determination; a dimple indented his smoothly shaven chin.
His companion, and his senior by several years, was a slender,
undersized man.

When the two men came abreast of the doorway illumined by the swinging
lamp, it was evident that they had arrived at their destination. They
halted and prepared to enter the house.

At this moment the child crouching in the snow began to sob.

"See here!" exclaimed the taller of the two gentlemen. "Here is a little
girl."

"Why, so there is!" in turn exclaimed the elder, stooping and letting
the light of his lantern fall on the child's face. "What are you doing
here, little one?" he asked in a kindly tone.

"I want my mama! I want my mama!" wailed the child, with a fresh burst
of sobs.

"Who is your mama?" queried the younger man.

"My mama is the countess."

"And where does she live?"

"In the palace."

"Naturally! In which avenue is the palace?"

"I--don't--know."

"A true child of Paris!" in an undertone exclaim