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doubt they know at their old lodging?"

      "No, sir; for, when I went back to get the things, the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter, 'that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and very unfortunate, – I hope no misfortune has happened to them! They appeared to be very calm and composed, but I am sure they were quite in despair.' 'And where are they gone now to lodge?' I asked. 'Ma foi, I don't know!' was the answer; 'they left without telling me, and I am sure they will not return here.'"

      The hopes which Rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the trace he had of them was that the young daughter's name was Claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at the bottom of which were these words:

      "To write to Madame de Lucenay, for M. de Saint-Remy?"

      The only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these unfortunates was through Madame de Lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with Madame d'Harville.

      "Here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," said Rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs.

      "I will give you the change, sir. What is your address?"

      "Rue du Temple, No. 17."

      "Rue du Temple, No. 17; oh, very well, very well, I know it."

      "Have you ever been to that house?"

      "Often. First I bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that's no affair of mine, – she sells, I buy, and so that's settled. Another time, not six weeks ago, I went there again for the furniture of a young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away."

      "M. François Germain, perhaps?" said Rodolph.

      "Just so. Did you know him?"

      "Very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in the Rue du Temple, so I do not know where to find him. But where shall we find a cart to take the goods?"

      "As it is not far, a large truck will do, and old Jérome is close by, my regular commissionaire. If you wish to know the address of M. François Germain, I can help you."

      "What? Do you know where he lives?"

      "Not exactly, but I know where you may be sure to meet with him."

      "Where?"

      "At the notary's where he works."

      "At a notary's?"

      "Yes, who lives in the Rue du Sentier."

      "M. Jacques Ferrand?" exclaimed Rodolph.

      "Yes; and a very worthy man he is. There is a crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy."

      "But how did you know that M. Germain worked at this notary's?"

      "Why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. So that time, too, though rather out of my line, I bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice young fellow, and I had a pleasure in obliging him. Well, I bought him right clean out, and I paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture from me. A commissionaire, with a truck, went with him, everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me, lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an honest man that I said to him, 'Take the things with you, – never mind, I shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 'Very good,' says he; 'but I am never at home, so call to-morrow in the Rue du Sentier, at M. Jacques Ferrand's, the notary, where I am employed, and I will pay you.' I went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others."

      Rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact. Germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others.

      The prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for Madame Georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and vainly sought.

      Rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips.

      "Well, did not I tell you so?" she exclaimed. "I am not deceived: we shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the Morels will be set up like princes. Here come the shopkeepers; are they not loaded? Nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. I said to myself, since they are to have things done so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, I shall not have lost more than three hours. But come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. It will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to make up for this morning."

      Rodolph paid, and quitted the Temple with Rigolette.

      At the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the passage, they were almost knocked over by Madame Pipelet, who was running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast.

      "Mercy on us!" said Rigolette, "what ails you, Madame Pipelet? Where are you running to in that manner?"

      "Is it you, Mlle. Rigolette?" exclaimed Anastasie; "it is Providence that sends you; help me to save the life of Alfred."

      "What do you mean?"

      "The darling old duck has fainted. Have mercy on us! Run for me, and get me two sous' worth of absinthe at the dram-shop, – the strongest, mind; it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus, – that generally sets him up again. Be kind, and do not refuse me, I can then return to Alfred; I am all over in such a fluster."

      Rigolette let go Rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop.

      "But what has happened, Madame Pipelet?" inquired Rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge.

      "How can I tell, my worthy sir? I had gone out to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop, to save Alfred so much trotting about; I returned, and what should I see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in the air! There, M. Rodolph," said Anastasie, opening the door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to break one's heart!"

      Lamentable spectacle! With his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered M. Pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. The fainting was over, and Alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been bonneted.

      "He kicks, – that's a beautiful symptom! He comes to!" exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, "What's the matter with my Alfred? It's his 'Stasie who is with him. How goes it now? There's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." Then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: "What, did they abuse and assassinate him, – the dear old darling, the delight of his 'Stasie, eh?"

      Alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the fatal word:

      "Cabrion!"

      And his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful vision.

      "Cabrion! What, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed Madame Pipelet. "Alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. This monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days, but he poisons his nights also, – he pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though Alfred was a malefactor, and this Cabrion, whom may Heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse."

      Rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of Rigolette's former neighbour.

      "Alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten me," said Madame Pipelet; "let's try and get you up. Why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow?

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