ictor, if this affair is successful." And at this thought his
satisfaction overflowed in a complacent monologue: "Why shouldn't it
succeed?" he asked himself. "Could anything be more simple and certain?
I can make any demand I please--one, two, three hundred thousand francs.
Ah, it was a good thing that the Count de Chalusse died! Now, I can
forgive Valorsay. Let him keep my forty thousand francs; he's quite
welcome to them! Let him marry Mademoiselle Marguerite; I wish them
a large and flourishing family! And Madame d'Argeles, too, has my
benediction!"

He was so confident his fortune was made that at noon he could restrain
himself no longer. He hired a cab and accompanied by Chupin he set out
for M. Wilkie's abode, declaring that he would wake that young gentleman
up if needs be, but at all events he must see him without delay. When he
reached the Rue du Helder, he told Chupin to wait in the cab, and then
entering the house, he asked: "Monsieur Wilkie?"

"On the second floor, the door to the right," replied the concierge.

M. Fortunat ascended the stairs very slowly, for he felt the necessity
of regaining all his composure, and it was not until he had brought
himself to a proper frame of mind that he rang the bell. A small
servant, M. Wilkie's fag, who took his revenge in robbing his employer
most outrageously, came to the door, and began by declaring that his
master was out of town. But M. Fortunat understood how to force doors
open, and his manoeuvres succeeded so well that he was finally allowed
to enter a small sitting-room, while the servant went off, saying: "I
will go and inform monsieur."

Instead of wasting time in congratulating himself on this first
achievement the agent began to inspect the room in which he found
himself, as well as another apartment, the door of which stood open. For
he was of the opinion that a dwelling-place indicates the character of
its inmate, as surely as a shell indicates the form of the creature that
inhabits it. M. Wilkie was comfortably lodged; but his rooms were
most pretentiously ornamented. They were indeed decorated in more
than doubtful taste. There were very few books lying about, but costly
riding-whips, spurs, rifles, cartridge-boxes, and all the paraphernalia
of a fashionable sporting man, were here in abundance.

The only pictures on the wall were a few portraits of celebrated horses,
which foreshadowed the fact that M. Wilkie must have, at least, an
eighth share