“Ah, _sapperment!_ I knew we were in a droll neighborhood,” murmured the driver. “It would seem they never see a cabriolet here except when it brings the _commissaire de police_ to look after some one.” If this reflection did not tend to allay my previous doubts upon the nature of the locality, it certainly aided to excite my curiosity, and I was determined to persist in my resolution of at least seeing the interior of the “pension.” “Here we are at last,” cried the driver, throwing down his whip on the horse's back, as he sprang to the ground, and read aloud from a board fastened to a tree, “'Pension Bourgeoise. M. Rubichon, propriétaire.' Shall I wait for monsieur?” “No. Take out that portmanteau and cloak; I'm not going back now.” A stare of most undisguised astonishment was the only reply he made, as he took forth my baggage, and placed it at the little gate. “You 'll be coming home at night,” said he, at length; “shall I come to fetch you? Not to-night,” repeated he, in amazement. “Well, adieu, Monsieur,--you know best; but I 'd not come a-pleasuring up here, if I was a young fellow like you.” As he drove away, I turned to look at the building before me, which up to this time I had not sufficiently noted. It was a long, two-storied house, which evidently at an early period had been a mansion of no mean pretension. The pilasters which ornamented the windows, the balustrades of the parapet, and the pediment above the entrance, were still remaining, though in a dilapidated condition. The garden in front showed also some signs of that quaint taste originally borrowed from the Dutch, and the yew-trees still preserved some faint resemblance to the beasts and animals after which they had once been fashioned, though time and growth had altered the outlines, and given to many a goodly lion or stag the bristly coat of a porcupine. A little fountain, which spouted from a sea-monster's nostrils, was grass-grown and choked with weeds. Everything betokened neglect and ruin; even the sundial had fallen across the walk, and lay moss-grown and forgotten; as though to say that Time had no need of a record there. The _jalousies_, which were closed in every window, permitted no view of the interior; nor did anything, save a faint curl of light blue smoke from one chimney, give token of habitation. I could not help smiling to myself at the absurd fancy which had suffered me to feel that this deserted quarter, this lonesome dwelling, contained anything either adventurous or strange about it, or that I should find either in the “pension” or its guests wherewithal to interest or amuse me. With this thought I opened the wicket, and, crossing the garden, pulled the bell-rope that hung beside the door.