"Too far. I've enough for now," said Meyerbeer, chuckling, as he walked
away. "But I'd give five hundred dollars to know who Zoug-Zoug is. I'll
make another try."

So he held his sensation back for a while yet. Of the colony at the
Hotel St. Malo, not one of the three who knew would tell him. Bagshot
had sworn the others to secrecy.

Jacques had gone on with the horses. He was to rent a house, or get
rooms at a hotel. He did very well. The horses were stalled at the
Hotel de France. He had rented an old chateau perched upon a hill, with
steps approaching, steps flanking; near it strange narrow alleys, leading
where one cared not to search; a garden of pears and figs, and grapes,
and innumerable flowers and an arbour; a pavilion, all windows, over an
entranceway, with a shrine in it--a be-starred shrine below it; bare
floors, simple furniture, primitiveness at every turn.

Gaston and Andree came, of choice, with a courier in a racketing old
diligence from Douarnenez, and they laughed with delight, tired as they
were, at the new quarters. It must be a gipsy kind of existence at the
most.

There were rooms for Jacques and Annette, who at once set to work with
the help of a little Breton maid. Jacques had not ordered a dinner at
the hotel, but had got in fresh fish, lobsters, chickens, eggs, and other
necessaries; and all was ready for a meal which could be got in an hour.

Jacques had now his hour of happiness. He knew not of these morals--
they were beyond him; but after a cheerful dinner in the pavilion, with