That evening he wrote to a nephew of his living as an artist in the Quartier Montmartre. Some months before Barbier's vanity had been flattered by an adroit letter from this young gentleman, written, if the truth were known, at a moment when a pecuniary situation, pinched almost beyond endurance, had made it seem worth while to get his uncle's address out of his widowed mother. Barbier, a bachelor, and a man of some small savings, perfectly understood why he had been approached, and had been none the less extraordinarily glad to hear from the youth. He was a _rapin?_ well and good; all the great men had been _rapins_ before him. Very likely he had the _rapin's_ characteristic vices and distractions. All the world knew what the life meant for nine men out of ten. What was the use of preaching? Youth was youth. Clearly the old man--himself irreproachable--would have been disappointed not to find his nephew a sad dog on personal acquaintance. 'Tell me, Xavier,' his letter ran, 'how to put a young friend of mine in the way of seeing something of Paris and Paris life, more than your fool of a tourist generally sees. He is a bookseller, and will, of course, mind his trade; but he is a young man of taste and intelligence besides, and moreover half French. It would be a pity that he should visit Paris as any _sacre_ British Philistine does. Advise me where to place him. He would like to see something of your artist's life. But mind this, young man, he brings a sister with him as handsome as the devil, and not much easier to manage: so if you do advise--no tricks--tell me of something _convenable_.' A few days later Barbier appeared in Potter Street just after David had put up the shutters, announcing that he had a proposal to make. David unlocked the shop-door and let him in. Barbier looked round with some amazement on the small stuffy place, piled to bursting by now with books of every kind, which only John's herculean efforts could keep in passable order. 'Why don't you house yourself better--_hein?_' said the Frenchman. 'A business growing like this, and nothing but a den to handle it in!' 'I shall be all right when I get my other room,' said David composedly. 'Couldn't turn out the lodger before. The woman was only confined last week.' And as he spoke the wailing of an infant and a skurrying of feet were heard upstairs. 'So it seems,' said Barbier, adjusting his spectacles in bewilderment. '_Jesus!_ What an affair! What did you permit it for? Why didn't you turn her out in time?' 'I would have turned myself out first,' said David. He was lounging, with his hands in his pockets, against the books; but though his attitude was nonchalant, his tone had a vibrating energy. 'Barbier!' 'Yes.' 'What do women suffer for like that?' The young man's eyes glowed, and his lips twitched a little, as though some poignant remembrance were at his heart. Barbier looked at him with some curiosity.