a revolution, the poor little La Valliere, who was far
from suspecting, as she returned joyfully, leaning on the arm of her
mother, for what a strange future she was reserved. As to the good
man, Malicorne--we speak of the syndic of Orleans--he did not see more
clearly into the present than others did into the future; and had no
suspicion as he walked, every day, between three and five o'clock, after
his dinner, upon the Place Sainte-Catherine, in his gray coat, cut
after the fashion of Louis XIII. and his cloth shoes with great knots of
ribbon, that it was he who was paying for all those bursts of laughter,
all those stolen kisses, all those whisperings, all those little
keepsakes, and all those bubble projects which formed a chain
of forty-five leagues in length, from the palais of Blois to the
Palais-Royal.

CHAPTER 80. Manicamp and Malicorne

Malicorne, then, left Blois, as we have said, and went to find his
friend Manicamp, then in temporary retreat in the city of Orleans. It
was just at the moment when that young nobleman was employed in selling
the last decent clothing he had left. He had, a fortnight before
extorted from the Comte de Guiche a hundred pistoles, all he had, to
assist in equipping him properly to go and meet Madame, on her arrival
at Havre. He had drawn from Malicorne, three days before, fifty
pistoles, the price of the brevet obtained for Montalais. He had then no
expectation of anything else, having exhausted all his resources, with
the exception of selling a handsome suit of cloth and satin, embroidered
and laced with gold, which had been the admiration of the court. But to
be able to sell this suit, the last he had left--as we have been forced
to confess to the reader--Manicamp had been obliged to take to his bed.
No more fire, no more pocket-money, no more walking-money, nothing but
sleep to take the place of repasts, companies and balls. It has been
said--"he who sleeps, dines;" but it has never been affirmed--he who
sleeps, plays--or he who sleeps, dances. Manicamp, reduced to this
extremity of neither playing nor dancing, for a week at least, was,
consequently, very sad; he was expecting a usurer, and saw Malicorne
enter. A cry of distress escaped him.

"Eh! what!" said he, in a tone which nothing can describe, "is that you
again, dear friend?"

"Humph! you are very polite!" said Malicorne.

"Ay, but look you, I was expecting money, and, instead of money, I see
you."

"And