I loitered about the outer court of the hotel, under pretence of waiting for the abbe, in hope of seeing something which would throw light upon the mysterious occupant of the chamber. But the comers and goers were all of the most unobtrusive and ordinary cast. I ventured to question the concierge concerning his lodgers. They were all _bons gens_. "Were there any ladies?" The little shoemaker lifted his hammer a moment while he eyed me--"But one, monsieur; the wife of the old tobacconist at the corner." I asked about the windows in the little court, beside which I passed--did they belong to his hotel? He did not think it. I prevailed on him to step with me a moment into the corridor, and pointed out to him the window which had drawn so much of my attention. I asked if he knew the hotel to which it belonged? He did not. It might be the next, or the next after, or down the little alley branching out of the Rue de Seine. I asked him of the character of the neighborhood. It was a good neighborhood, he said--a very reputable neighborhood. He believed the lodgers of the quarter to be all _honnetes gens_. I took occasion to loiter about the courts of the adjoining houses, frequently passing the opposite side of the way, with my eye all the time upon the entrance gates. The lodgers seemed to be even inferior to those who passed in at the court where the abbe resided. One individual alone had attracted my attention. He was a tall, pale man, in the decline of life, dressed in a sort of half-uniform; he walked with a stooping gait, and seemed to me (perhaps it was a mere fancy) as much weighed down by care as years. Several times I had seen him going in or coming out of the court that opened two doors above the abbe's. He was unlike most inhabitants of the neighborhood in both dress and air. I ventured to step up to the brisk little concierge in the court one day, and ask who was the tall gentleman with the tarnished lace who had just entered? "It is _un Monsieur Very_," said the concierge. "And poor Monsieur Very lives alone?" said I. "How should I know, monsieur?" "He always walks alone," said I. "It is true," said the concierge. "He has children, perhaps?" said I. "_Tres probable_," said the concierge. He was little disposed to be communicative, yet I determined to make another trial. "You have very pretty lodgers," said I. "Pardon, monsieur," said he, "I do not understand you." "Pretty--very pretty lodgers," said I. "You are facetious, monsieur," said the concierge, smiling. "Not at all," said I; "have I not seen (a sad lie) a very pretty face at one of the windows on the back court?" "I do not think it, monsieur." "And then there are no female lodgers?" "_Pardon, monsieur_--there are several." Here the little concierge was interrupted by a lodger, and I could ask no more.