“Is this the Rue Mi-Carême?” said the driver to a boy, who stood gazing in perfect wonderment at our equipage.
“Yes,” muttered the child,—“yes. Who are you come for now?”
“Come for, my little man? Not for any one. What do you mean by that?”
“I thought it was the commissary,” said the boy.
“Ah, sapperment! I knew we were in a droll neighborhood,” murmured the driver. “It would seem they never see a cabriolet here except when it brings the commissaire de police to look after some one.”
If this reflection did not tend to allay my previous doubts upon the nature of the locality, it certainly aided to excite my curiosity, and I was determined to persist in my resolution of at least seeing the interior of the “pension.”
“Here we are at last,” cried the driver, throwing down his whip on the horse's back, as he sprang to the ground, and read aloud from a board fastened to a tree, “'Pension Bourgeoise. M. Rubichon, propriétaire.' Shall I wait for monsieur?”
“No. Take out that portmanteau and cloak; I'm not going back now.”
A stare of most undisguised astonishment was the only reply he made, as he took forth my baggage, and placed it at the little gate.
“You 'll be coming home at night,” said he, at length; “shall I come to fetch you? Not to-night,” repeated he, in amazement. “Well, adieu, Monsieur,—you know best; but I 'd not come a-pleasuring up here, if I was a young fellow like you.”