“How does he look?” asked Monsieur Ramin with perfect composure. “I caught a glimpse of him, and he appears to me to be rapidly preparing for the good offices of the undertaker.” Monsieur Ramin smiled, rubbed his hands, and joked merrily with a dark-eyed grisette, who was cheapening some ribbon for her cap. That girl made an excellent bargain that day. Towards dusk the mercer left the shop to the care of his attendant, and softly stole up to the fourth story. In answer to his gentle ring, a little old woman opened the door, and, giving him a rapid look, said briefly, “Monsieur is inexorable; he won’t see any doctor whatever.” She was going to shut the door in his face, when Ramin quickly interposed, under his breath, with “_I_ am not a doctor.” She looked at him from head to foot. “Are you a lawyer?” “Nothing of the sort, my good lady.” “Well then, are you a priest?” “I may almost say, quite the reverse.” “Indeed you must go away, Master sees no one.” Once more she would have shut the door; but Ramin prevented her. “My good lady,” said he in his most insinuating tones, “it is true I am neither a lawyer, a doctor, nor a priest. I am an old friend, a very old friend of your excellent master; I have come to see good Monsieur Bonelle in his present affliction.” Marguerite did not answer, but allowed him to enter, and closed the door behind him. He was going to pass from the narrow and gloomy ante-chamber into an inner room—whence now proceeded a sound of loud coughing—when the old woman laid her hand on his arm, and raising herself on tiptoe, to reach his ear, whispered: “For Heaven’s sake, Sir, since you are his friend, do talk to him; do tell him to make his will, and hint something about a soul to be saved, and all that sort of thing: do, Sir!” Monsieur Ramin nodded and winked in a way that said “I will.” He proved however his prudence by not speaking aloud; for a voice from within sharply exclaimed, “Marguerite, you are talking to some one. Marguerite, I will see neither doctor nor lawyer; and if any meddling priest dare—” “It is only an old friend, Sir;” interrupted Marguerite, opening the inner door. Her master, on looking up, perceived the red face of Monsieur Ramin peeping over the old woman’s shoulder, and irefully cried out, “How dare you bring that fellow here? And you, Sir, how dare you come?” “My good old friend, there are feelings,” said Ramin, spreading his fingers over the left pocket of his waistcoat,—“there are feelings,” he repeated, “that cannot be subdued. One such feeling brought me here. The fact is, I am a good-natured easy fellow, and I never bear malice. I never forget an old friend, but love to forget old differences when I find one party in affliction.” He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and composedly seated himself opposite to his late master.