"I do," said I. "Can you tell me if Alphonse Giraud is in this house?" [Illustration: MADAME LOOKED AT ME AGAIN. AND I MADE MY INQUIRIES ELSEWHERE.] "No; I cannot." "Perhaps Mademoiselle Lucille--" "Perhaps. You can ask her--if you like." Madame looked at me again. And I made my inquiries elsewhere. Chapter XII Ruin "Il ne faut regarder dans ses amis que la seule vertu qui nous attache a eux." If the Baron Giraud was unable in the nature of human affairs to take his wealth with him, it accompanied him, at all events, to the grave, where feathers made a fine show of grief, where priests growled consolatory words, and cherub-faced boys swung themselves and censers nonchalantly along. Some who owed their wealth to Giraud sent their empty carriages to mourn his decease; others, with a singular sense of fitness, despatched wreaths of tin flowers to be laid upon his grave. The Vicomte had been early astir that morning; indeed, I heard him moving before daylight in the room where the coffin was. I was glad when that same morning dawned, for my kind old patron seemed unhinged by these events, and could not keep away from the apartment where the Baron lay. There was, of course, no keeping him from the funeral, which ceremony I also attended, and if ever earth was laid to earth it was when we consigned the great financier to his last resting-place. Alphonse Giraud, in his absurd French way, embraced me when the last carriage drove away from the gates of Pere la Chaise. "And now, mon ami," he said, with a sigh of relief, "let us go and lunch at the club." He meant no disrespect towards his departed sire. It was merely that his elastic nature could not always be at a tension. His quick bright face was made for smiles, and naturally relaxed to that happy state. He clapped me on the back. "You are my best friend," he cried. And I had, indeed, arranged the funeral for him. Those who had honoured the ceremony with their presence showed much sympathy for Alphonse. They pressed his hand; some of them embraced him. A few--elderly men with daughters--told him that they felt like fathers towards him. All this Alphonse received with a bland innocence which his Parisian education had no doubt taught him. When they were gone, rattling away in their new carriages, he looked after them with a laugh. "And now," he said, "for ruin. I wonder what it will be like--new at all events. And we all live for novelty nowadays. There is the price of a luncheon at the club, however. Come, my friend, let us go there." "One change you must, at all events, be prepared for," I said, as we stepped into his carriage. "A change of friends." Alphonse understood and laughed. Cynicism is an arid growth, found to perfection on the pavement, and this little Frenchman wore his boots out thereon.