When I had reached the barrier which majestically dominates Paris, I continued my route between some sparse and poverty-stricken sheds across the fields. I little dreamt that in a comparatively few years there would arise on the spot a pretty town of fifteen thousand inhabitants, with its cafés, its baths, and its theatre, that would dispute with Passy the advantages of being the Tibur of the literary men and artists of Paris, frightened at the hubbub of the city. At the other side of the hill which I had slowly mounted, the soft and gently sloping greensward landed me in the Avenue de Clichy. I felt as light of heart under those century-old trees as if I were returning to the paternal manor after a morning’s sport, but at the sight of the gate of the mansion, my assurance forsook me. Will she receive me? Will she recognise me? My blood, overheated by my rapid march, froze in my veins at the question. I should probably have turned back, but for the knowledge that to advance was the only chance of finding an asylum. When I got to the porter’s lodge I pulled the chain, producing but a faint tinkling of the bell. It had, nevertheless, been heard, for a voice from inside told Laurette to open the gate. ‘Laurette,’ I said to myself; ‘that name, no doubt, belongs to a young girl, and the sympathy between our ages will probably get me a favourable reception.’ The illusion vanished almost immediately, and I should have been the first to laugh at my blunder if at that moment my poor heart had been at all susceptible to any kind of joy. Instead of the little Laurette I expected--namely, a kind of _opéra-comique_ shepherdess, with a beflowered and beribboned crook--I beheld an old peasant woman, wrinkled and bent down with years. Laurette was dressed in a black and white striped kirtle, and her crook was represented by the ponderous key of the gate. In answer to my inquiries, she pointed to the door of the hall; but her second reply convinced me that she was deaf, for she kept gently shaking her head and softly slapping her ears with her fore-finger. Trembling and uncertain, I stood rooted to the spot, dreading to advance; for it is a cruel thing to come to a friend’s door in the guise of a suppliant. But the massive gate had turned on its hinges and closed once more while Laurette re-entered her pavilion, and I was thus compelled to advance.