"There are two rooms and a parlor on the second," she began tentatively. "That suits me." "The price will be for you--" la Mère Corniche hastened to increase the sum, "thirty francs a month." "Good." "Payable in advance." The young fellow shrugged his shoulders, and with a comical grin turned his pockets inside out. "What!" la Mère Corniche shrieked in her astonishment. "You swindler! You have taken an apartment at thirty francs a month without a sou in your pocket." "At present." "Get off, you, who'd rob a poor old woman." "We'll renounce the apartment, then," he cried, with a laugh. "One room, citoyenne; give me one room if you are a patriot." "Patriot--robber! Be off or I'll denounce you!" The young fellow, seeing his case hopeless, prepared to depart. "Good-by, then, mother," he said. "And thanks for your patriotic reception. Only direct me to the house of Marat and I'm done with you." "What have you to do with the Citoyen Marat?" cried the old woman, startled into speech at that name. "That is my affair." "You know him?" "I have a letter to him." La Mère Corniche looked at him in indecision. An emissary to Marat was a very different matter. She struggled silently between her avarice and the one adoration of her life, until her listener, mistaking her silence, turned impatiently on his heel. "Here, come back," the concierge cried, thus brought to decision. "Let me see your letter." The young fellow shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and produced a large envelope, on which the curious eye of his listener beheld the magic words, "To Jean Paul Marat." But if she had hoped to find on it some clue to its sender, she was disappointed. She turned the letter over and handed it reluctantly back. "Private business, hey?" "Particularly private," he said. Then, seeing his advantage and following up his good fortune, he added: "Now, citoyenne, don't you think you could tuck me away somewhere until I make a fortune?" The old woman hesitated a moment longer, whereupon he fell to scanning pensively the address, and mumbling over "Jean Paul Marat, a great man that." "Damn, I'll do it!" la Mère Corniche suddenly cried, and with a crook of her thumb she bade him follow her. But immediately she halted and asked: "Citoyen--?" "Citoyen Barabant--Eugène Armand Barabant." "Of--?" "Of 38 Rue Maugout," he said laconically, then, with a smile, modified his step to follow the painful progress of his guide. At the dark entrance a raven came hopping to meet them, filling the gloom with his raucous cry. Barabant halted. "It's only Jean Paul," explained the old woman. "He brings good luck."