He had been standing till now with his hand on the key and the closed door at his back, evidently not intending to admit us; but thus asked, he pushed the door open, and said, somewhat ungraciously:-- "It is just that, M'sieur Müller--a den; not fit for gentlemen like you. But you can go in, if you please." We did not wait for a second invitation, but went in immediately. It was a long, low, dark room, with a pale gleam of fading daylight struggling in through a tiny window at the farther end. We could see nothing at first but this gleam; and it was not till Guichet had raked out the wood ashes on the hearth, and blown them into a red glow with his breath, that we could distinguish the form or position of anything in the room. Then, by the flicker of the fire, we saw a low truckle-bed close under the window; a kind of bruised and battered seaman's chest in the middle of the room; a heap of firewood in one corner; a pile of old packing-cases; old sail-cloth, old iron, and all kinds of rubbish in another; a few pots and pans over the fire-place; and a dilapidated stool or two standing about the room. Avoiding these latter, we set ourselves down upon the edge of the chest; while Guichet, having by this time lit a piece of candle-end in a tin sconce against the wall, stood before us with folded arms, and stared at us in silence. "I want to know, Guichet, if you can give me some sittings," said Müller, by way of opening the conversation. "Depends on when, M'sieur Müller," growled the model. "Well--next week, for the whole week." Guichet shook his head. He was engaged to Monsieur Flandrin _là bas_, for the next month, from twelve to three daily, and had only his mornings and evenings to dispose of; in proof of which he pulled out a greasy note-book and showed where the agreement was formally entered. Müller made a grimace of disappointment. "That man's head takes a deal of cutting off, _mon ami_," he said. "Aren't you tired of playing executioner so long?" "Not I, M'sieur! It's all the same to me--executioner or victim, saint or devil." Müller, laughing, offered him a cigar. "You've posed for some queer characters in your time, Guichet," said he. "Parbleu, M'sieur!" "But you've not been a model all your life?" "Perhaps not, M'sieur." "You've been a sailor once upon a time, haven't you?" The model looked up quickly. "How did you know that?" he said, frowning. "By a number of little things--by this, for instance," replied Müller, kicking his heels against the sea-chest; "by certain words you make use of now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat. _Que diable_! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!" The model shook his head. "I don't understand it," he said, slowly. "Nay, I could tell you more than that if I liked," said Müller, with an air of mystery. "About myself?" "Ay, about yourself, and others." Guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips.