"Prythee, no buts! Let it be Yes, and the thing is settled. So--here we are. Won't you come in and smoke a pipe with me? I've a bottle of capital Rhenish in the cupboard."
We had met near the Odéon, and, as our roads lay in the same direction, had gone on walking and talking till we came to Müller's own door in the Rue Clovis. I accepted the invitation, and followed him in. The portière, a sour-looking, bent old woman with a very dirty duster tied about her head, hobbled out from her little dark den at the foot of the stairs, and handed him the key of his apartment.
"Tiens!" said she, "wait a moment--there's a parcel for you, M'sieur Müller."
And so, hobbling back again, she brought out a small flat brown paper-packet sealed at both ends.
"Ah, I see--from the Emperor!" said Müller. "Did he bring it himself, Madame Duphôt, or did he send it by the Archbishop of Paris?"
A faint grin flitted over the little old woman's withered face.
"Get along with you, M'sieur Müller," she said. "You're always playing the farceur! The parcel was brought by a man who looked like a stonemason."
"And nobody has called?"
"Nobody, except M'sieur Richard."
"Monsieur Richard's visits are always gratifying and delightful--may the diable fly away with him!" said Müller. "What did dear Monsieur Richard want to-day, Madame Duphôt?"