The streets were quiet, almost deserted; the trees in the boulevards were stirred slightly by the soft wind, and the long lines of gas lamps flickered and cast an uncertain light as Pierre Rouillier, in evening dress, and with an Inverness cape about his shoulders, emerged from the Rue de Pépin, crossed the boulevard, and turned into the Chausée de Wavre. Whistling softly to himself, he continued his walk down the long, straight thoroughfare until within a few yards of the Rue Wiertz, where, before a large and rather gloomy-looking house, he halted. He gave two vigorous tugs at the bell, and Nanette opened the door.
“Ah!” the mud exclaimed, with familiarity, “it’s a good thing you’ve come. Mademoiselle has been so anxious about you. Most of them are in a fine state.”
“What! have they had supper, then?”
“Yes; and there are several fresh people—swells.”
“Who are they?”
“You’ll see.”
“Who’s there, Nanette?” asked a shrill, musical voice.
“M’sieur Rouillier, mademoiselle,” replied the girl.
“Ah, Pierre!” said the voice; then it could be heard repeating in another direction: “Our young friend, Pierre, has arrived.”
Immediately there was a chorus of approbation, and some one commenced singing the first verse of the chansonette, “Pierre, my long-lost love,” as that distinguished personage walked into the room. Valérie was standing at the door, and whispered to him—