g, five stories high, sinister of aspect, and standing
quite alone, could just be distinguished in the darkness. It was already
falling to pieces, and yet it was not entirely completed. Plainly
enough, the speculator who had undertaken the enterprise had not been
rich enough to complete it. On seeing the many closely pierced windows
of the facade, a passer-by could not fail to divine for what purpose
the building had been erected; and in order that no one should remain in
ignorance of it, this inscription: "Furnished Rooms," figured in
letters three feet high, between the third and fourth floors. The inside
arrangements could be easily divined: innumerable rooms, all small and
inconvenient, and let out at exorbitant rentals.

However, Victor Chupin's memory had misled him. This establishment was
not on the right, but on the left-hand side of the road, a perfect mire
through which M. Fortunat and his companion were obliged to cross. Their
eyes having become accustomed to the darkness, they could discern sundry
details as they approached the building. The ground floor comprised
two shops, one of which was closed, but the other was still open, and a
faint light gleamed through the soiled red curtains. Over the frontage
appeared the shop-keeper's name, Vantrasson, while on either side, in
smaller letters, were the words: "Groceries and Provisions--Foreign and
French Wines." Everything about this den denoted abject poverty and low
debauchery.

M. Fortunat certainly did not recoil, but before entering the shop
he was not sorry to have an opportunity to reconnoitre. He approached
cautiously, and peered through the window at a place where a rent in
the curtain allowed him some view of the interior. Behind the counter
a woman who looked some fifty years of age was seated, mending a soiled
dress by the light of a smoking lamp. She was short and very stout.
She seemed literally weighed down, and puffed out by an unwholesome
and unnatural mass of superfluous flesh; and she was as white as if her
veins had been filled with water, instead of blood. Her hanging
cheeks, her receding forehead, and her thin lips, imparted an alarming
expression of wickedness and cunning to her countenance. At the farther
end of the store Fortunat could vaguely discern the figure of a man
seated on a stool. He seemed to be asleep, for his crossed arms rested
on a table, with his head leaning on them.

"Good luck!" whispered Chupin in his employer's ear;