uestion, with an air of
well-assumed indifference, and asked: "Whom does that pretty dwelling
belong to?"

"To Madame Lia d'Argeles," answered the landlady.

M. Fortunat started. He well remembered that this was the name the
Marquis de Valorsay had mentioned when speaking of the vile conspiracy
he had planned. It was at this woman's house that the man whom
Mademoiselle Marguerite loved had been disgraced! Still he managed to
master his surprise, and in a light, frank tone he resumed: "What a
pretty name! And what does this lady do?"

"What does she do? Why, she amuses herself."

M. Fortunat seemed astonished. "Dash it!" said he. "She must amuse
herself to good purpose to have a house like that. Is she pretty?"

"That depends on taste. She's no longer young, at any rate; but she
has superb golden hair. And, oh! how white she is--as white as snow,
monsieur--as white as snow! She has a fine figure as well, and a most
distinguished bearing--pays cash, too, to the very last farthing."

There could no longer be any doubt. The portrait sketched by the
wine-vendor fully corresponded with the description given by the
hotelkeeper in the Rue de Helder. Accordingly, M. Fortunat drained
his glass, and threw fifty centimes on the counter. Then, crossing the
street, he boldly rang at the door of Madame d'Argeles's house. If any
one had asked him what he proposed doing and saying if he succeeded in
effecting an entrance, he might have replied with perfect sincerity, "I
don't know." The fact is, he had but one aim, one settled purpose in
his mind. He was obstinately, FURIOUSLY resolved to derive some benefit,
small or great, from this mysterious affair. As for the means of
execution, he relied entirely on his audacity and sang-froid, convinced
that they would not fail him when the decisive moment came. "First of
all, I must see this lady," he said to himself. "The first words will
depend solely upon my first impressions. After that, I shall be guided
by circumstances."

An old serving-man, in a quiet, tasteful livery, opened the door,
whereupon M. Fortunat, in a tone of authority, asked: "Madame Lia
d'Argeles?"

"Madame does not receive on Friday," was the reply.

With a petulant gesture, M. Fortunat rejoined: "All the same I must
speak with her to-day. It is on a matter of the greatest importance.
Give her my card." So saying, he held out a bit of pasteboard, on which,
below his name, were inscribed the words: "Liquidations.