I say "fancied," because his way of falling in love was so unlike my way, that I could scarcely believe it to be the same complaint. It affected neither his appetite, nor his spirits, nor his wardrobe. He made as many puns and smoked as many pipes as usual. He did not even buy a new hat. If, in fact, he had not told me himself, I should never have guessed that anything whatever was the matter with him. It came out one day when he was pressing me to go with him to a certain tea-party at Madame Marotte's, in the Rue St. Denis. "You see," said he, "it is _la petite_ Marie's fête; and the party's in her honor; and they'd be so proud if we both went to it; and--and, upon my soul, I'm awfully fond of that little girl".... "Of Marie Marotte?" He nodded. "You are not serious," I said. "I am as serious," he replied, "as a dancing dervish." And then, for I suppose I looked incredulous, he went on to justify himself. "She's very good," he said, "and very pretty. Quite a Madonna face, to my thinking." "You may see a dozen such Madonna faces among the nurses in the Luxembourg Gardens, every afternoon of your life," said I. "Oh, if you come to that, every woman is like every other woman, up to a certain point." "_Les femmes se suivent et se ressemblent toujours_," said I, parodying a well-known apothegm. "Precisely, but then they wear their rue, or cause you to wear yours, 'with a difference.' This girl, however, escapes the monotony of her sex by one or two peculiarities:--she has not a bit of art about her, nor a shred of coquetry. She is as simple and as straightforward as an Arcadian. She doesn't even know when she is being made love to, or understand what you mean, when you pay her a compliment." "Then she's a phenomenon--and what man in his senses would fall in love with a phenomenon?" "Every man, _mon cher enfant_, who falls in love at all! The woman we worship is always a phenomenon, whether of beauty, or grace, or virtue--till we find her out; and then, probably, she becomes a phenomenon of deceit, or slovenliness, or bad temper! And now, to return to the point we started from--will you go with me to Madame Marotte's tea-party to-morrow evening at eight? Don't say 'No,' there's a good fellow." "I'll certainly not say No, if you particularly want me to say Yes," I replied, "but--" "Prythee, no buts! Let it be Yes, and the thing is settled. So--here we are. Won't you come in and smoke a pipe with me? I've a bottle of capital Rhenish in the cupboard." We had met near the Odéon, and, as our roads lay in the same direction, had gone on walking and talking till we came to Müller's own door in the Rue Clovis. I accepted the invitation, and followed him in. The _portière_, a sour-looking, bent old woman with a very dirty duster tied about her head, hobbled out from her little dark den at the foot of the stairs, and handed him the key of his apartment. "_Tiens_!" said she, "wait a moment--there's a parcel for you, M'sieur Müller."