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It was at number One Hundred and Two in this agreeable thoroughfare that my friend's innamorata resided with her maternal aunt, the worthy relict of Monsieur Jacques Marotte, umbrella-maker, deceased. Thither, accordingly, we wended our miry way, Müller and I, after dining together at one of our accustomed haunts on the evening following the events related in my last chapter.

Monsieur Dorinet clapped his hand to his head, which was now adorned with a rapidly-spreading glory; burned his fingers; and cut a frantic caper. "Save him! save him!" yelled Madame Marotte.

"My sketch-book!" He opened it, and a slip of paper fell out. On this slip of paper were written, in a very neat, small hand, the words, "Returned with thanks;" but the page that contained the sketch made in the Café Procope was missing. Madame Marotte, as I have already mentioned more than once, lived in the Rue du Faubourg St.

And now, hospitably anxious that each of her guests should have a chance of achieving distinction, Madame Marotte invited Mdlle. Honoria to favor the company with a dramatic recitation. Mdlle. Honoria hesitated; exchanged glances with the Cyclops; and, in order to enhance the value of her performance, began raising all kinds of difficulties.

Then they went upstairs to examine Hastings' future quarters, test the bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram appeared satisfied. Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but as Hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor paused a moment and fixed Madame with his watery eyes.

We were just about to take our places when Madame Marotte seized the opportunity to introduce Müller and myself to M. Lenoir. "We have met before, Monsieur," said Müller, pointedly. "I am ashamed to confess, Monsieur, that I do not remember to have had that pleasure," replied M. Lenoir, somewhat stiffly. "And yet, Monsieur, it was but the other day," persisted Müller.

A short cut brought us into the midst of the Rue de Faubourg St. Denis, and within a few yards of a gloomy-looking little shop with the words "Veuve Marotte" painted up over the window, and a huge red and white umbrella dangling over the door.

"Ah, Heaven! my dear Mademoiselle, take care of the candles!" cries Madame Marotte in a shrill whisper. ... "le bras qui venge nos deux frères, Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, Qui nous rend"... Here he lost his place; stammered; and recovered it with difficulty. "Qui nous rend maîtres d'Albe".... Madame Marotte groans aloud in an agony of apprehension

M. PHILOMÈNE to MADAME DE MONTPARNASSE. I have the four corners of my Aunt's Flower Garden, etc., etc. MADAME DE MONTPARNASSE to M. DORINET. I have the four corners of my Aunt's Flower Garden, etc., etc. Monsieur Dorinet repeats the formula to Madame Desjardins; Madame Desjardins passes it on to me; I proclaim it at the top of my voice to Madame Marotte; Madame Marotte transfers it to Mdlle.

Mademoiselle Rosalie, modesty forbids me to extol the acquired graces of even my most promising pupil; but I may be permitted to adore in you the graces of nature." While I was listening to these scraps of salutation, Müller was murmuring tender nothings in the ear of the fair Marie, and Madame Marotte was pouring out the coffee.