brandy, which he drained at a single draught. "And
that's all," he remarked. "No signature--not even an initial. It was a
so-called respectable woman who wrote that. They never sign their notes,
the hussies! for fear of compromising themselves, as I've reason to
know." And so saying, he laughed the idiotic laugh of a man who has been
drinking immoderately. "If I had time," he resumed, "I should make some
inquiries about this Madame Lucy Huntley--a feigned name, evidently.
I should like to know---- But what's the matter with you, Monsieur
Fortunat? You are as pale as death. Are you ill?"

To tell the truth, the agent did look as if he were indisposed.
"Thanks," he stammered. "I'm very well, only I just remembered that some
one is waiting for me."

"Who?"

"A client."

"Nonsense!" rejoined the valet; "make some excuse; let him go about his
business. Aren't you rich enough? Pour us out another glass of wine; it
will make you all right again."

M. Fortunat complied, but he performed the task so awkwardly, or,
rather, so skilfully, that he drew toward him, with his sleeve, the
letter which was lying beside M. Casimir's plate. "To your health," said
the valet. "To yours," replied M. Fortunat. And in drawing back the arm
he had extended to chink glasses with his guest, he caused the letter to
fall on his knees.

M. Casimir, who had not observed this successful manoeuvre, was trying
to light his cigar; and while vainly consuming a large quantity of
matches in the attempt, he exclaimed: "What you just said, my friend,
means that you would like to desert me. That won't do, my dear fellow!
You are going home with me; and I will read you some love-letters from
a woman of the world. Then we will go to Mourloup's, and play a game of
billiards. That's the place to enjoy one's self. You'll see Joseph, of
the Commarin household, a splendid comedian."

"Very well; but first I must settle the score here."

"Yes, pay."

M. Fortunat rang for his bill. He had obtained more information than
he expected; he had the letter in his pocket, and he had now only one
desire, to rid himself of M. Casimir. But this was no easy task. Drunken
men cling tenaciously to their friends; and M. Fortunat was asking
himself what strategy he could employ, when the waiter entered, and
said: "There's a very light-complexioned man here, who looks as if he
were a huissier's clerk. He wishes to speak with you, gentlemen."

"Ah! it's Chupin!" exclaimed the