It was necessary, therefore, to keep Nicette out of sight. I hoped that that would be an easy matter, so far as going in was concerned. It was at least one o'clock in the morning, and my concierge would be in bed; when that was the case, if anyone knocked, she simply inquired, from her bed: "Who's that?" and then pulled the cord, without disturbing herself further. So that Nicette could go up to my room unseen. But as to her going away the next day! Madame Dupont, my concierge, was inquisitive and talkative; she was like all concierges--I need say no more. The whole household would hear of the adventure; I should be unmercifully laughed at; it would be known in society. It was most embarrassing; but I could not leave Nicette in the street. Poor child! the watch would find her and take her to the police station, as a vagrant! And I honestly believed that she was a respectable girl; I almost believed that she was innocent; however, that would appear in due time. We crossed the bridges, followed the quays, and at last drew near our destination. Nicette did not walk so rapidly as at first; she was tired out by her evening's work; and I--well, I leave it to you to guess! "Here we are!" I said at last. "I'm glad of it; for I'm awful tired." "And I, too, I assure you. I must knock." "Oh! what a beautiful street! and what a fine house!" "You mustn't make any noise when we go upstairs, Nicette; you mustn't speak!" "No, monsieur, never fear; I don't want to wake anybody up." "Sh! The door is open." Madame Dupont asked who was there; I replied, and we entered the house; the hall light was out and it was very dark; that was what I wanted. "Give me your hand," I whispered to Nicette, "and let me lead you; but, above all things, no noise." "All right, monsieur." I led her to the staircase, which we ascended as softly as possible. I wished with all my heart that we were safely in my rooms. If anyone should open a door, I could not conceal Nicette; I had not even a cloak to throw over her, for it was summer.