O'Hara complied, and discovered the cause of all the commotion. It was Pat, the foundling dog, who was panting on the pavement, the threadbare coat of the man who had befriended him held between his teeth![9] The faithful creature was at once, of course, received into the carriage, and the driver was ordered to proceed rapidly to the Place du Panthéon, taking the Boulevard St. Michel on his way. 'We shall call into _la Jeune France_ on the route,' said the stranger, 'and get this poor little wench something to revive her.' The girl caught the words and made signs of dissent at the mention of _la Jeune France_, which is a famous coffee-house much affected by roystering students and the frail partners of their revels. As soon as she could find language, she uttered a feeble but emphatic 'No.' 'What! You turn up your nose at _la Jeune France_. Well, we'll cut it. Driver, straight to the Panthéon. Nevertheless, my child, it was there I met your dead friend first!' 'No, never,' cried the girl with gathering energy. 'Poor Caroline!' and she burst into a comforting flood of tears. 'Poor Caroline, indeed! How many aliases had she? When I knew her last she was called Marguerite _la modiste_,[10] and that was no later than last night.' 'You met her last night?' inquired the girl in excited tones. 'I danced with her at the Closerie des Lilas!' 'Oh no! Say you didn't. Caroline never frequented such a place,' pleaded the poor girl in the beseeching tone of one praying for mercy from a threatened weapon. 'It was there I made her acquaintance, too,' remarked O'Hara. 'There must be some mystery here,' said the stranger, pausing; 'you call your friend Caroline. I call her Marguerite, and she's known to the entire quarter by that name. We shan't speak about her reputation.' With a wink at O'Hara, '_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_, with Swift's translation. Not meaning any compliment, she was more beloved than respected.' 'I don't understand you, monsieur, but I'm grateful to you both for your kindness. I'll thank you to let me alight as we arrive at the Place du Panthéon.' The girl arose, but the effort was too much for her strength, and she tottered back helpless to the seat, crying: 'Oh, I am so weak! My head is on fire!' 'Rest where you are; we'll see you to your own door, and I'll have a doctor by your bedside in five minutes,' insisted the stranger with gentle violence. 'What's your street and number?' 'Rue de la Vieille Estrapade, thirty.' The carriage was quickly driven to the street indicated, which runs quite near, in close parallel with the temple of St. Geneviève on its southern side, and the Jehu, with a crack of his whip, drew up before number thirty--a tall, substantial, square-built house. 'Now, my child, take my arm,' said the stranger in the frieze coat, rising and assisting his wearied charge to the door.