We started, drove down the Rue Castiglione, along the Rue de Rivoli, struck off by the Louvre and over the Pont Neuf. Standing in conversation with Joanna, I had the gutter urchin's confidence of the pavement, the impudence of the street. Seated beside Madame la Comtesse de Verneuil in an elegant victoria I was as dumb as a fish, until her graciousness set me more at my ease. As we passed through the _Quartier_ I trembled lest any of my fellow students should see me. "_Asticot avec une femme du monde chic! Il court les bonnes fortunes ce sacré petit diable. Ou l'as-tu pêchée?_" I shivered at their imagined ribaldries. And all the time I was athrill with pride and joy--suffused therewith into imbecility. Verily I must be a _monsieur_ to drive with Countesses! And verily it must be fairyland for Asticot to be driving in Joanna's carriage. "That is Henri Quatre," said she pointing to the statue as we crossed the bridge. "It was the first thing my Master brought me to see in Paris--years ago," I said, with the very young's curious mis-realisation of time. "He is very fond of Henri Quatre." "Why?" she asked. I told her vaguely the story of the crusader's mace. She listened with a somewhat startled interest. "I believe your Master is mad," she remarked. "Indeed," she added after a pause, "I believe everyone is mad. I'm mad. You're mad." "Oh, I am not," I cried warmly. "You must be to set up a human god and worship him as you do your Master. You are the maddest of all of us, Mr. Asticot." A touch of light scorn in her tone nettled me. Even Joanna should not speak of him irreverently. "If he had bought you from your mother for half-a-crown," said I, "and made you into a student at Janot's, you would worship him too, Madame." "I have been wondering whether you kept your promise to me," she said--I wish women were not so disconcertingly irrelevant--"but now I am quite sure." "Of course I didn't tell my master," I declared stoutly. "Good. And this little drive must be a secret too." "If you wish," I said. "But I don't like to have secrets from him." "Give me his address," she said after a pause, and I noticed she spoke with some effort. "Does he still go by that absurd name? What was it?" "His name is Berzélius Paragot, and he lives at No. 11 Rue des Saladiers." "Do you know his real name?" "Yes, Madame," said I. "It is Gaston de Nérac. I only learned it lately through Monsieur Izelin." "Do you know Izelin, too?" she asked. I explained my stay in Buda-Pesth. I also mentioned Monsieur Izelin's reticence in speaking of Paragot's early days. I think he was cautioned by my Master. "And who do you think I am?" The sudden question startled me. "You," said I, "are Joanna." "Indeed? How long have you known that, pray?" "When I came to you with the tambourine at Aix-les-Bains." "I don't understand," she said, the frozen blue coming into her eyes. "Did he tell you then--a child like you?"