At the angle of the street there remained nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices, shouting at intervals "_Vive le Roi!_" There remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the hostelry _des Medici_; that is to say, two for Cropole, two for Pittrino, and one for each scullion.

Cropole never ceased repeating, "How good-looking the king is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious father!" "A handsome likeness!" said Pittrino.
"And what a lofty carriage he has!" added Madame Cropole, already in promiscuous commentary with her neighbors of both sexes.
Cropole was feeding their gossip with his own personal remarks, without observing that an old man on foot, but leading a small Irish horse by the bridle, was endeavoring to penetrate the crowd of men and women which blocked up the entrance to the _Medici_.

But at that moment the voice of the stranger was heard from the window.
"Make way, monsieur l'hotelier, to the entrance of your house!" Cropole turned around, and, on seeing the old man, cleared a passage for him.
The window was instantly closed.
Pittrino pointed out the way to the newly-arrived guest, who entered without uttering a word.
The stranger waited for him on the landing; he opened his arms to the old man, and led him to a seat.
"Oh, no, no, my lord!" said he.

"Sit down in your presence ?--never!" "Parry," cried the gentleman, "I beg you will; you come from England--you come so far.

Ah! it is not for your age to undergo the fatigues my service requires.