The heavy vehicle rolled on so slowly, that a pedestrian walking in the same direction, easily kept up with it through the whole length of the Cours-la-Reine, although he seemed anything but nimble footed.

He was poorly dressed and leaned painfully on his stick; his long beard was white, as well as his hair and bushy eyebrows, and the dark color of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of a mulatto.

As the landau approached the Saint-Ramon mansion, however, the coachman was forced to take his place in the long procession of carriages going in the same direction, thus permitting the pedestrian to gain a certain distance ahead.

The old mulatto continued his way slowly to the entrance of abroad avenue, encumbered with a long line of carriages and almost dazzling with bright colored lights, and paused in amazement at the gate.

"Why are these grounds so brilliantly illuminated?" he asked a curious looker-on.

"In honor of the opening of the wonderful Saint-Ramon mansion," replied the man addressed.

"Saint Ramon!" repeated the old man, softly, as if speaking to himself. "How strange!"

He seemed buried in reflections for a few minutes, then turning once more to the man he had already addressed, he asked with evident curiosity:

"Can you tell me anything about this mansion, monsieur?"

"People say it is the eighth wonder of the world; and upon my word, it must be wonderful; the work has been going on for five years," responded the man.

"To whom does it belong?"

"To a young millionaire, who has spent his money lavishly and very foolishly, I believe."

"Do you know his name?"

"I believe the name is Saint Harem or Saint-Herem—"

"There is no more doubt," murmured the old man. "But why should he name it Saint-Ramon?"

Again he seemed buried in sad reflections, until aroused from his reverie by his companion's voice.

"How singular, after all," the man was saying. "A rich marquis should know only people with equipages; and yet, outside of two or three good carriages, the whole procession consists of fiacres and cabriolets."

"Singular, indeed," repeated the old man. "But can you tell me the time?"

"Half-past-ten," the man informed him.

"I am to be at Chaillot at midnight only," said the old man to himself. "It leaves me ample time to investigate this mystery. What a strange coincidence."

After some hesitation, the old man entered the gate, glided into the obscurity of a by-path shaded by secular elm-trees, and walked on toward the mansion. Notwithstanding his evident preoccupation, he could not help remarking the immense quantity of flowers that banked the main avenue, their thousand variegated colors illuminated by a profusion of many-hued lanterns and glittering glass candelabra of all shapes and shades.

This fairy-land avenue ended in a vast hemicycle as brightly illuminated, beyond which arose the Saint Ramon mansion, a veritable palace which, by the beauty and grandeur of its architecture, recalled the most brilliant days of the Renaissance.

Crossing the hemicycle, the old man reached an immense porch leading to the peristyle. Through the glass doors that enclosed this antechamber in all its length, he could see an army of powdered footmen in magnificent livery, while around him a continual stream of carriages unloaded a multitude of men, women and young girls, whose extreme simplicity of toilet seemed in little harmony with the splendors of this enchanted palace.

Urged on by an invincible curiosity, the old mulatto followed the ever increasing throng into the peristyle; then passing through a double row of footmen, in resplendent blue and silver liveries, and standing as impassible as soldiers, he finally reached the reception room, where another army of servants in blue coats, black silk breeches and white silk stockings, stood in array. Although the modest appearance of the guests seemed little befitting the princely luxury of the house in which they were received, the stranger noticed, with some surprise, that the most respectful deference was shown to all. He paused but a moment here, however, passing almost immediately into the music gallery, beyond which was an immense circular salon, surmounted by a dome and forming the center of three other galleries which served as ball room, banquet hall, and billiard room. These four galleries—including the music hall—were connected by wide passages paved in rich mosaics and adorned with a profusion of exotic plants, while they were covered with glass domes, giving the whole the appearance of a hot-house.

We shall not attempt to describe the splendor, elegance, noble grandeur and sumptuousness of the furnishings of these vast rooms, dazzling with gildings and paintings, sparkling with lights, crystals and flowers, reflected indefinitely by enormous mirrors, but will merely mention the rare magnificence that gave this palace its royal, monumental character. The salon and galleries were adorned with allegorical paintings and sculptures that would have made the renown of the most beautiful castle in existence. The most illustrious artists of the day had contributed to this superb work. IngrÈs, Delacroix, Scheffer, Paul Delaroche, and other future celebrities, such as Couture, Gerome, etc., had been employed by the opulent and intelligent creator of this palace. On the banquet table was displayed a marvel of silverware worthy of the epoch of Benvenuto; candelabra, ewers, ice basins, fruit bowls, flower vases, all would have done honor to a musÉe by the rich purity of form and the precious finish and delicacy that characterized each piece.

One odd peculiarity of the vast circular salon must not be omitted, however. Above a gigantic white marble chimney, a veritable monument to the bold genius of David—our MichaËl Angelo—were a number of allegorical figures in relief, representing arts and industries, and supporting a large oval frame incrusted in the entablature of the chimney. This frame enclosed a painting which might have been attributed to Velasquez. It was the portrait of a pale man, with a harsh, austere countenance, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and high, polished forehead; a brown gown, half in the style of a dressing gown and half way resembling the gown of a monk, gave the figure the imposing character of those saints and martyrs so numerous in the Spanish school of painting; an appearance emphasized, moreover, by a gold aureole which seemed to cast its dazzling reflections on the austere, pensive face. Below, traced in large, Gothic letters in a space formed by the foliage of the border, were these two words:

SAINT RAMON.

Still following the throng, the old mulatto finally found himself before this chimney. At sight of the portrait, he stood for a moment in amazement; then, overcome by emotion, tears filled his eyes and he murmured softly; "Poor friend! it is indeed he! But why the word saint prefixed to his name? Why that aureole around his brow? Why this mystic appearance? And besides, what a strange celebration! Though poorly dressed, and a stranger, I entered without meeting resistance, or even an inquiry."

At this moment a servant bearing fruits and ices approached and offered him refreshments, which he refused; he was striving, but in vain, to guess what might be the condition of the people around him. All the men were modestly attired; some in black frock-coats, others in new blouses, while a few wore the customary evening dress; all maintained a discreet reserve, though they expressed their delight to one another in low voices; and yet, strange to say, far from appearing amazed at the riches accumulated in this palace, they seemed perfectly at ease and not at all awed by the magnificence of their surroundings.

The women and young girls, however, seemed more embarrassed and intimidated; they naively admired the splendor of the place and exchanged comments and observations in whispers.

Anxious to penetrate this singular mystery, the old mulatto again approached the chimney and joined a group of guests who were contemplating the portrait of Saint-Ramon.

"Do you see that portrait, Juliette?" a tall, robust man, with a good natured countenance, was asking his wife. "That good man is well entitled to his name. There are many saints in Paradise who are mere idlers beside him, if we are to judge by the good he has done."

"How is that, Michel?" queried the wife, inquisitively.

"We owe these five years of well-paid work to this worthy man, my dear," explained the husband. "Thanks to this M. Saint-Ramon, I have earned sufficiently in the last few years to make us all happy and contented, and save a great deal besides."

"But, my dear Michel," remonstrated the wife, "this is not the man who ordered and paid for the work. M. Saint-Herem did all that, and it was he who welcomed us so kindly when we came this evening."

"That may be, Juliette. But whenever M. Saint Herem came into the place to watch us at work, he never failed to say: 'My children, were it not for the riches I have inherited, I could not give you this work and pay you as you deserve. You must therefore reserve all your gratitude for the memory of the man who left me so much money; it was he who accomplished the hardest task, hoarding his wealth cent by cent, depriving himself of every comfort, while I have nothing to do but spend this treasure liberally. To spend is my duty! Of what use are riches, if not to do good! Remember the good old miser then, and bless his avarice; it gives me the pleasure of giving you work in the building of a magnificent monument, and to you it gives ample salaries, honestly earned!"

"All the same, Michel, we must not forget M. Saint-Herem and give him a share of our gratitude."

"You are right, Juliette. He is a noble young man, and he and his uncle make a famous pair."

The old mulatto had listened to this conversation with as much interest as astonishment, and as he wandered from group to group, he heard nothing but a chorus of praises and blessings in favor of Saint-Ramon, the worthy miser, and of his nephew, whose nobility of heart and liberality none could laud too highly.

"Is it a dream?" mused the old man. "Who can believe that these praises are addressed to the memory of a miser—a memory usually cursed and execrated by the living! And can it be the heir of this miser, the dispenser of his wealth, who rehabilitates him thus? And why are these workmen invited to this inauguration? It must be a dream!"

But the old mulatto's amazement was still more augmented by another singular contrast at this moment. He had suddenly met a group of men in evening dress, with many decorations in their buttonholes, accompanied by women in elegant toilettes. A short distance further on was Florestan Saint-Herem, more brilliant and gay than ever in this atmosphere of luxury and splendor. He was standing at the extremity of the gallery adjoining the reception-room, welcoming his guests with the utmost grace and courtesy, greeting every one with a cordial smile and addressing a few words of gracious affability to each woman or young girl, charming and placing the most timid at their ease by his unaffected sincerity. It was while accomplishing the duties of this most admirable hospitality, that he caught his first glimpse of the beautiful Countess Zomaloff, as she entered the first saloon, accompanied by Princess Wileska and the Duke de Riancourt.