of his dressing-table. His
clothes and furniture were to be sold, and the proceeds to be given to
the Paris poor. "I do not charge any one with this particular duty," the
document went on; "I have so many friends, every one of whom will be
ready to carry out my last wishes."

Another "mystery," though far less interesting than Major Fraser, was
the Persian gentleman whom one met everywhere, at the Opera, at the
Bois de Boulogne, at the concerts of the Conservatoire, etc. Though
invariably polite and smiling, he never spoke to any one. For ten years,
the occupant of the stall next to his at the Opera had never heard him
utter a syllable. He always wore a long white silk petticoat, a
splendidly embroidered coat over that, and a conical Astrakan cap. He
was always alone; and though every one knew where he lived, in the
Passage de l'Opera, no one had ever set foot in his apartment. As a
matter of course, all sorts of legends were current about him. According
to some, he had occupied a high position in his own country, from which
he had voluntarily exiled himself, owing to his detestation of Eastern
habits; according to others, he was simply a dealer in Indian shawls,
who had made a fortune. A third group, the spiteful ones, maintained
that he sold dates and pastilles, and that the reason why he did not
speak was because he was dumb, though not deaf. He died during the
Second Empire, very much respected in the neighbourhood, for he had been
very charitable.

Towards the middle of the forties the Passage de l'Opera began to lose
some of its prestige as a lounge. The outside stockjobbers, whom the
police had driven from the Boulevards and the steps of Tortoni, migrated
thither, and the galleries that had resounded with the sweet
warblings--in a very low key--of the clients of Bernard Latte, the
publisher of Donizetti's operas, were made hideous and unbearable with
the jostling and bellowing of the money-spinners. Bernard Latte himself
was at last compelled to migrate.

In the house the ground-floor of which was occupied by Tortoni, and
which was far different in aspect from what it is now, lived Louis
Blanc. Toward nine in the morning he came down for his cup of cafe au
lait. It was the first cup of coffee of the day served in the
establishment. I was never on terms of intimacy with Blanc, and least of
all then, for I shared with Major Fraser a dislike to politic-mongers,
and, rightly or wrongly, I have always considered t