The dear old gentleman had done so a hundred times before--as early, indeed, as my second term at Cambridge, where he had considerably surprised the waiter at the Bull by a display of honest British wrath.
It was, in all truth, necessary that I should do something--should find one of those occupations (heavily salaried) for which, I make no doubt, as many incompetent youths seek to-day as twenty-five years ago.
"What you want," John Turner had said, when I explained my position to him, "is no doubt something that will enable a gentleman to live like a lord." Now, Monsieur de Clericy was probably prepared to give two hundred pounds a year to his secretary.

But it was with Mademoiselle--and I did not even know her Christian name--that I was anxious to treat.
What would she give?
It was, I remember, a lovely morning.

What weather these Napoleons had, from Austerlitz down to the matchless autumn of 1870! The address printed in the corner of Monsieur de Clericy's card was unknown to me, although I was passably acquainted with the Paris streets.

The Rue des Palmiers was, I learnt, across the river, and, my informant added, lay between the boulevard and the Seine.

This was a part of the bright city which Haussmann and Napoleon III had as yet left untouched--a quarter of quiet, gloomy streets and narrow alleys.
The sun was shining on the gay river as I crossed the bridge of the Holy Fathers, and the water seemed to dance and laugh in the morning air.