apartment and two adjoining rooms were engaged.     

       "By whom?"     

       "People of distinction."     

       "But who are they? They must have names or titles."     

       "Undoubtedly, Monsieur, but such a stream is rolling into Paris, that we have ceased to inquire the names or titles of our guests—we designate them simply by the rooms they occupy."     

       "What stay do they make?"     

       "Even that, Monsieur, I cannot answer. It does not interest us. Our rooms, while this continues, can never be, for a moment, disengaged."     

       "I should have liked those rooms so much! Is one of them a sleeping apartment?"     

       "Yes, sir, and Monsieur will observe that people do not usually engage bedrooms unless they mean to stay the night."     

       "Well, I can, I suppose, have some rooms, any, I don't care in what part of the house?"     

       "Certainly, Monsieur can have two apartments. They are the last at present disengaged."     

       I took them instantly.     

       It was plain these people meant to make a stay here; at least they would not go till morning. I began to feel that I was all but engaged in an adventure.     

       I took possession of my rooms, and looked out of the window, which I found commanded the inn-yard. Many horses were being liberated from the traces, hot and weary, and others fresh from the stables being put to. A great many vehicles—some private carriages, others, like mine, of that public class which is equivalent to our old English post-chaise, were standing on the pavement, waiting their turn for relays. Fussy servants were to-ing and fro-ing, and idle ones lounging or laughing, and the scene, on the whole, was animated and amusing.     

       Among these objects, I thought I recognized the traveling carriage, and one of the servants of the "persons of distinction" about whom I was, just then, so profoundly interested. 

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