That could not be number five, and so I turned to the other side of the square, and began in the opposite direction. As I was counting the houses from the corner, I saw a little girl coming from a street nearly in face of me, with a basket in her hand, and poorly dressed. She turned suddenly into one of the door-ways, and I sprang after her, running as fast as possible and nearly overturning an old woman, who was roasting chestnuts in a tin kettle—for which I had my benediction. Little cared I, however; for my heart beat wildly, and the only thing I feared at that moment, was, that I should lose sight of that little girl with the basket; for I had taken it into my head at once that she was Mariette de Salins. She had gone up the stairs, however, when I reached the door, and without pausing for an instant I ran up after her, just in time to see her enter an apartment on the second floor, the door of which was closing as I approached. I knocked sharply, without a moment’s consideration, when an elderly man, with thin and powdered white hair, and a pleasant, though grave expression of countenance, presented himself, asking who I wanted. A moment’s consideration had shown me that it might be dangerous to mention the name of Mariette; nor must it be supposed that such discretion was at all marvelous in a boy of my age at that time; for those were days of constant peril, when every act was to be thought of, every word weighed, and the habit of caution and reserve was inculcated as a duty upon even mere children. On the spur of the occasion, then, I replied that I was seeking Dr. L——, still keeping my eyes fixed upon a door which stood ajar heading into a room beyond. “My name is Doctor L——,” replied the old man. “What is it you want with me, my son? And why are you looking so earnestly in there?” “I want you to come and see a gentleman who is sick,” I replied, “in the Hotel de Clermont, close by the Quinze-vingts.” “Is he very ill?” asked the doctor. “What is his name?” But before I could answer either of his questions the inner door I have mentioned was drawn back, the beautiful little face peeped out, and in a moment after Mariette was in my arms. “I thought it was you, dear Mariette,” I cried, kissing her tenderly, while she seemed never tired of hugging me. “Where is your mother? How is she?” “Hush, hush!” said the old doctor, closing the outer door; “no questions or answers of any kind here, except medical ones. Mariette knows well that she must be silent, and answer no inquiries—and so,” he continued, after having thus stopped all explanations between us, “I suppose I am to conclude, my son, that this story of the sick man is a fiction, and that your object was to catch your little playfellow here.”