'Is that the Bénic who wrote "Robert Surcouf," a rattling corsair ballad?' demanded Friezecoat. 'The same, sir.' 'Will you ask Mademoiselle Berthe to make me a copy of it, words and music, and will you allow me to send her a present of some of our Irish music in return?' 'Certainly; shall we not, Berthe?' Berthe smiled happily. 'And I'll ask you, sir, to come to hear her play your country's music. He who has been kind to the old soldier's grand-daughter is welcome to the old soldier's hearth.' Shortly afterwards the two Irishmen, who had made such a rare rencontre, bade their farewells to the Frenchman and his grand-daughter, and left. 'He's a regular old brick, that Chauvin,' said Friezecoat on the doorstep, 'and I'll remember that song to his grand-daughter. If she wasn't my sister to-day, she may be something nearer some day. Good-night.' 'You're going, and you've not told me----' 'Not to-night. Search the side-pocket of that coat, and you'll find fifty francs in it. _Au revoir._' And this strangest of strange characters jumped into the hackney-carriage and disappeared by a street leading to the Panthéon, leaving O'Hara in a brown study in the brown shadows of the Rue de la Vieille Estrapade. He was roused from his reverie by an affectionate whine, now become familiar. It was the dog, forgotten when they entered the house, and who had been lying patiently by its threshold. He returned the creature's welcome with a caress, and determined, as he had fallen in with him so curiously, and as he had shown so lively a sense of gratitude and fidelity--much more than humanity usually permits itself to be betrayed into--to take Pat back to his lodgings and adopt him. He did not fear the Caudine forks now, for he had the grand passport, the jingling gold, in his pocket, and the old pride returned to his port and the jovial defiance to his eye. Gaily he strode down by the Rue Soufflot to the Boulevard St. Michel--we believe he might even have been heard whistling 'Rory O'More,' to the huge delight of the dog, who capered at his heels--until he reached the café of _la Jeune France_, where he came to a dead stop on the pavement, as if debating something in his mind. 'No,' he said at last, 'I shan't go in; I'll see, for once, if I can keep a good resolution when I have the means of breaking it. Egad, this is a day of adventures for me. If half these things were written down in a story, the world would say the author was a lunatic, or imagined he was writing for fools!' Not the least grateful surprise awaited him at his hotel in the Rue du Four when he re-entered. It was a letter of credit for twenty pounds from a debtor in Ireland, which the _concierge_, who knew the handwriting, smilingly slipped into his fingers. CHAPTER V. NAPOLEONIC IDEAS.