This pedestrian, who was very poorly dressed, did not seem to be very active, for he leaned heavily on his cane. His long beard, his hair, and his bushy eyebrows were as white as snow, while the swarthy hue of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of an aged mulatto. When M. de Riancourt's carriage had advanced about half way up the Cours la Reine, its progress was still further impeded by a long line of vehicles, which were evidently also on the way to the Hôtel Saint-Ramon; so the old man passed the landau, and walked on until he came to an avenue glittering with gaily coloured lamps, and filled from end to end with a long procession of carriages.
Though the old man seemed deeply absorbed in thought, his attention was naturally attracted to the large crowd that had assembled near the handsome gateway that served as an entrance to this brilliantly lighted avenue, so he paused, and, addressing one of the bystanders, inquired:
"Can you tell me what all these people are looking at?"
"They are looking at the guests who are going to the opening of the famous Saint-Ramon mansion."
"Saint-Ramon?" murmured the old man, with evident surprise. "How strange!"
Then he added aloud:
"What is this Hôtel Saint-Ramon, monsieur?"
"The eighth wonder of the world, people say. It has taken five years to build it, and the owner gives a house-warming to-night."
"To whom does this house belong, monsieur?"
"To a young man worth several millions."