retreated with gracious smiles, and kissing his hand as actors do, his
trembling hand, to the two rows of trimmed bushes.

Then he continued his walk with a solemn demeanor.

After that I never lost sight of him, and each morning he began anew his
outlandish exercises.

I was wildly anxious to speak to him. I decided to risk it, and one day,
after greeting him, I said:

"It is a beautiful day, monsieur."

He bowed.

"Yes, sir, the weather is just as it used to be."

A week later we were friends and I knew his history. He had been a
dancing master at the opera, in the time of Louis XV. His beautiful cane
was a present from the Comte de Clermont. And when we spoke about dancing
he never stopping talking.

One day he said to me:

"I married La Castris, monsieur. I will introduce you to her if you wish
it, but she does not get here till later. This garden, you see, is our
delight and our life. It is all that remains of former days. It seems as
though we could not exist if we did not have it. It is old and distingue,
is it not? I seem to breathe an air here that has not changed since I was
young. My wife and I pass all our afternoons here, but I come in the