matters
stood there was nothing to fear. It was a case where one could show a
brave front to the enemy without incurring the slightest danger. "Let
your husband alone," said he. "If he has only brought the paper that he
was sent to fetch, I sha'n't have lost my evening to oblige you."

Vantrasson had brought not one sheet of stamped paper, but two. A bad
pen and some muddy ink were produced, and M. Fortunat began to draw up
an acknowledgment according to the established formula. However, it was
necessary to mention the name of the creditor of whom he had spoken, and
not wishing to state his own, he used that of poor Victor Chupin, who
was at that very moment shivering at the door, little suspecting what
liberty was being taken with his cognomen.

"Chupin!" repeated the vixen, as if to engrave the name on her memory;
"Victor Chupin! I should just like to see him," she added, viciously.

When the document was finished, it became necessary to wake Vantrasson,
so that he might sign it. He did so with very good grace, and his wife
appended her signature beside her husband's. Thereupon M. Fortunat gave
them in exchange the note which had served as a pretext for his visit.
"And above all," he remarked, as he opened the door to go, "don't forget
that you are to pay something on account each month."

"Go to the devil, and your account with you!" growled Madame Vantrasson.

But Fortunat did not hear this. He was already walking down the road
by the side of Chupin, who was saying: "Well, here you are, at last,
m'sieur! I thought you had taken a lease of that old barrack. If ever I
come here again, I'll bring a foot-warmer with me."

But one of those fits of profound abstraction to which determined
seekers after truth are subject had taken possession of M. Fortunat, and
made him oblivious of all surrounding circumstances. His heart had been
full of hope when he reached the Asnieres Road, but he went away gloomy
and despondent; and quite unconscious of the darkness, the mud, and the
rain, which was again falling, he silently plodded along in the middle
of the highway. Chupin was obliged to stop him at the city gate, and
remind him that the cab was waiting.

"That's true," was M. Fortunat's only answer. He entered the vehicle,
certainly without knowing it; and as they rolled homeward, the thoughts
that filled his brain to overflowing found vent in a sort of monologue,
of which Chupin now and then caught a few words. "What a pie