"Wait till we reach Paris," was Martin's nightly cry, as we stayed our hunger on sour bread and sourer wine. "Five nights more--four nights--three nights--and the Star of Dauphiny pays for all. Such an inn, Monsieur Gaspard! My late master, your father, gave it all his custom. It was neither too grand nor too common, too dear nor too cheap. My Lord Duke found amusement to tickle his greatness, and a poor gentleman could be at his ease and no questions asked. May the devil choke these scoundrels, but I think they've drawn the wine from the vinegar butt by mistake." It was late in the afternoon when we entered Paris by the St. Denis gate, and made our way to the Rue du Temple, off which, the first turn to the right as one faces the river, and immediately fronting the huge crenellated outer wall of the Temple precinct, opened the street in which was situated Martin's famous inn. Of its gay surroundings, its cheery brightness, its constant bubble of laughter, he had spoken so often and so joyously that the sordid frowsiness of the Rue Neuve Saint Martin, a crooked, ghastly byeway of blistered walls, was a dismal surprise. So narrow was it, so filthy, so full of evil smells, that any question as to the reception of such a pair of out-at-elbows as ourselves vanished. The inn that could thrive upon such squalor could not afford to be nice as to its guests. In my ignorance of life the natural deduction from that premise never struck me; that the guests would be such as could not afford to be nice as to their inn. But as we wound into an ever-increasing gloom, an ever-growing sinister suggestiveness, a doubt arose that Martin's whole story was a legend of his imagination. "Are you sure," I began, waving a hand before my face in the vain hope of drawing a sweeter breath, "sure that my father--?" "I give you my word," he protested. "The Sieur Hellewyl, Monsieur de Commines, Monsieur de Vesc--" the name attracted him, for he was Dauphiny born--"Monsieur--Monsieur--oh! a score of them. But Paris has changed since then, or I have." "Monsieur de Commines?" I repeated, "are you really sure?" "Certainly; Monsieur de Commines, did I not say so before? He was little more than a boy at the time, but a bold one. I say, friend," he shouted, stooping to peer into the black vacancy of an open door out of which there came a burr of voices. It was significant that in the Rue Neuve Saint Martin there were no windows on the ground floor. "Whereabouts is the Star of Dauphiny?" Un the instant the rumble of talk ceased, but it was not until Martin had repeated his question that a man came to the door, a whitefaced, underfed fellow, whose sinewy arms were naked to the shoulders. Without replying he leaned against the door, half within the house and half without, eyeing us and our horses critically. "Does your master lodge there to-night?" he asked at last, lounging forward to the middle of the street that he might examine us the better.