door-handle, and without further ceremony entered a room. A young lady

was within; she was going to bed, and her toilet was far advanced, or

the other way about, if you prefer.

"I hope you will pardon this intrusion," said I; "but my room is No. 12,

and something has gone wrong with this blamed house."

She looked at me a moment; and then, "If you will step outside for a

moment, I will take you there," says she.

Thus, with perfect composure on both sides, the matter was arranged.

I waited a while outside her door. Presently she rejoined me, in a

dressing-gown, took my hand, led me up another flight, which made the

fourth above the level of the roof, and shut me into my own room, where

(being quite weary after these contraordinary explorations) I turned in,

and slumbered like a child.

I tell you the thing calmly, as it appeared to me to pass; but the next

day, when I awoke and put memory in the witness-box, I could not conceal

from myself that the tale presented a good many improbable features.

I had no mind for the studio, after all, and went instead to the

Luxembourg gardens, there, among the sparrows and the statues and the

falling leaves, to cool and clear my head. It is a garden I have always

loved. You sit there in a public place of history and fiction. Barras

and Fouche have looked from these windows. Lousteau and de Banville (one

as real as the other) have rhymed upon these benches. The city tramples

by without the railings to a lively measure; and within and about you,

trees rustle, children and sparrows utter their small cries, and the

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