Clever rascals are of necessity friendless and incomparably lonely men. Prudence prevents them from confiding their affairs to any other, even their nearest and dearest; therefore they are obliged to lead self-centred and segregated lives in the truest sense of the term, and are absolutely prohibited from tasting that greatest of luxuries, human sympathy. Since my last embarkation upon a career of villainy, I had so far escaped the pangs of ennui, because my mind had been always occupied with my ambition, and action had followed mercifully fast upon design. The mere fact, however, of having succeeded in making myself a rich man, robbed me of that precious concern for the future which had hitherto been my refuge from reflection. It is true that considerations of vengeance partially supplied its place, but as I had yet to find my enemy before I could exchange purpose for practice, I began to realize the utter isolation of my state. I arrived at Paris in a desolate and listless mood, and so wearied with my own companionship that I was ready to make friends with a dog. For that reason, while sipping coffee after dinner in the saloon of the Hotel de Louvre, where I had put up, I by no means disdained the overtures of an old and weazened little Frenchman, who appeared to be as lonely as myself. He was a curious looking creature: grey, grizzled, and stooped of shoulder. His face was seamed with a thousand wrinkles, that even overspread his long melancholy nose. But his eyes, although small, were very bright, and his mouth was that of a humourist. He sidled up to me by degrees, evidently wishful to make my acquaintance, and yet a little nervous of the first step. But I met him half way with an observation on the weather, and presently we were seated before the same table in close and animated conversation. "Life is for the most part a dull and dreary affair, monsieur," said he. "The remark of an intelligent and experienced man, monsieur," said I. He bowed and smiled. "That is true, monsieur," he returned, "but your discernment proves that you also possess the qualities which you have mentioned." "Yet in an inferior degree, for I take it that I am your junior, and you have the air of a man who has improved his opportunities to the utmost." The compliment delighted him. "Monsieur," he cried, "I am fortunate to have encountered you. I desire to know you better. Permit me! I call myself--Bertrand Du Gazet. I am a native of Paris, but I have spent half my life in America, where I acquired a certain fortune. I have but just returned to France, to find my relatives and old friends dead and widely scattered, and myself utterly forgotten. It is a sad home-coming." "Truly," I said politely. "My name, monsieur, is Henri Belloc, and, strange to say, I too have long been a stranger to my country. This very day I have come back to Paris after an absence of many years. And, like you, I have none to welcome me."