“Well, I did make a misstep at the first stone of the stairs so that, in throwing up my hands to keep from falling, I got a peep from its disarranging the handkerchief. I saw a regular row of trees on my left hand which made me think that I was in some avenue. That is all, on my honor.”
“I can’t say it is much. For the main avenue is long and more than one house has a carriage-doorway betwixt the St. Honore Coffeehouse and the Bastile.”
“The fact is,” said the locksmith, scratching his head, “I don’t think I am up to telling the house.”
The questioner appeared satisfied, although his countenance did not usually betray his feelings.
“But,” exclaimed he, as if skipping to another topic, “are there no good locksmiths at Paris that they have to send to Versailles for one?”
CHAPTER II.
THE THREE ODDITIES.
THE locksmith lifted his tumbler to his eye’s level, admired the liquor with pleasure, and said after sipping it with gratification:
“Bless you, yes, plenty of locksmiths at Paris.”
He drank a few drops more.
“Ay, and masters of the craft.” He drank again. “Yes, but there is a difference between them.”