“Why, Bonaparte, of course. Surely you knew----” “Alas, no, Monsieur Dufayel. I am a man the most ignorant. I did not know that my friend had done such great things.” “You didn’t? Then what in the name of heaven did you think Napoleon was?” “A sort of murderer,” said Papa Chibou humbly. * * * * * Out beyond the walls of Paris in a garden stands the villa of Georges Dufayel, who has become, everyone says, the most eloquent and successful young lawyer in the Paris courts. He lives there with his wife, who has bright dark eyes. To get to his house one must pass a tiny gatehouse, where lives a small old man with a prodigious walrus moustache. Visitors who peer into the gatehouse as they pass sometimes get a shock, for standing in one corner of its only room they see another small man, in uniform and a big hat. He never moves, but stands there by the window all day, one hand in the bosom of his coat, the other at his side, while his eyes look out over the garden. He is waiting for Papa Chibou to come home after his work among the asparagus beds to tell him the jokes and the news of the day. TOWERS OF FAME BY ELIZABETH IRONS FOLSOM From _McClure’s_ He raised his voice to bar interruption. “You cannot tell anything about any one. Romance survives where you least expect it. Would you look for it in Eric Hall, for instance? Would you suspect him of Romance?” “Well, hardly,” said one of the listeners. “Not that calculating, cold man--all indifference. Just to make your point, don’t try to prove that _he_ has known sentiment.” “More than most men,” replied Kent. “I have a notion to tell you about him. I _will_ tell you. Come closer, Janet--all of you--to hear the unbelievable.” “About Judge Eric Hall who knows only power--fame!” They laughed. “Yes, about him.” “How do _you_ happen to know?” “He told me.” “Did he expect you to tell?” “Heaven knows what a man expects when he babbles.” Dinner was over; coffee was being served in the big, candlelit drawing room. The guests had made little intimate groups; some one at the piano at the far end of the room touched half strains between talk and laughter. The group in the deep window drew closer to Kent, and made themselves comfortable. “‘Babbles’ is what I said,” went on the speaker, rolling a cigarette with deliberation, “but that is the wrong word. We were old friends: in fact, I was responsible for the whole thing, for I had talked about the queer town in one of the Middle Western states. Eric is the kind who always wants to know, so when he happened to be in that part of the state, he hired a car and drove out to see for himself.” “I’ve heard of that town,” declared Janet eagerly. “There is no other like it, is there?” Kent passed over the question.