The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger

socket, and various fancy articles and objects of art.

      As for the second room, a balcony and a couple of dwarf cypresses in pots convert it into a park for the summer.

      The tenant of this abode, a young man dressed like a Turk of comic opera, is just finishing his breakfast as we enter, a meal which in itself is a shameless violation of the law of the Prophet, as may be sufficiently seen by the presence of the mortal remains of a knuckle of ham and what was once a full bottle of wine.

      Breakfast ended, the youthful Turk extended himself on the floor in Oriental fashion, languidly smoking a narghilé marked “J.G.,” and while he gave himself up to a sense of Asiatic beatitude, he passed his hand from time to time over the back of a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who would no doubt have responded to these caresses if he had not been made of earthenware.

      All at once a sound of footsteps came from the passage, and the door opened to give admittance to somebody who without a word went straight up to a range which did duty as a bureau, drew a roll of papers out of the oven, and subjected them to a close scrutiny.

      “What!” cried the new-comer, speaking with a strong Piedmontese accent, “have you not finished the chapter on ‘Ventilation Holes’ yet?”

      “With your leave, uncle,” replied the Turk, “the chapter on ‘Ventilation Holes’ is one of the most interesting in your work, and requires to be studied with especial care. I am now studying it.”

      “Wretched boy, it is always the same thing! And my chapter on ‘Hot-air Stoves,’ how is that going on?”

      “The hot-air stove is doing well. By-the-by, uncle, if you would let me have a little firewood it would not come amiss. It is a small edition of Siberia up here; I am so cold that I have only to look at the thermometer, and it drops below zero!”

      “What! have you burned a whole faggot already?”

      “With your permission, uncle, there are faggots and faggots, and yours was a very little one.”

      “I will send you a block of patent fuel; it keeps the heat in.”

      “That is precisely why it gives none out.”

      “Oh; well, I will send you up a little faggot,” returned M. Monetti as he withdrew. “But I want my chapter on ‘Hot-air Stoves’ to-morrow.”

      “When the fire comes it will inspire me,” called the Turk, as the key was turned a second time in the lock.

      If this history were a tragedy, now would be the time to bring in the confidant. His name would be Noureddin or Osman; he would approach our hero with a mixture of discretion and protection in fine and just proportion, and worm his secret out of him with some such lines as these:—

      “What boding grief, my lord, o’erwhelms you now?

      And why this pallor on your awful brow?

      Did Allah’s might my lord’s designs arrest?

      Did Ali execute his stern behest

      And bear to exile under alien skies

      The wilful fair whose beauty charmed his eyes?”