cocked hat
and the coat thought that he had a police officer before him.

But the sight of the tolerably well filled bag made him perceive his
mistake.

"Ah! I have it," thought he, "it is something on account of my
inheritance, this man comes from the West Indies. But in that case why
is he not black?"

And making a sign to the man, he said, pointing to the bag, "I know all
about it. Put it down there. Thanks."

The man was a messenger of the Bank of France. He replied to Rodolphe's
request by holding before his eyes a small strip of paper covered with
writing and figures in various colored inks.

"You want a receipt," said Rodolphe. "That is right. Pass me the pen
and ink. There, on the table."

"No, I have come to take money," replied the messenger. "An acceptance
for a hundred and fifty francs. It is the 15th of April."

"Ah!" observed Rodolphe, examining the acceptance. "Pay to the order
of---- Birmann. It is my tailor. Alas," he added, in melancholy tones
casting his eyes alternately upon a frock coat thrown on the bed and
upon the acceptance, "causes depart but effects return. What, it is the
15th of April? It is extraordinary, I have not yet had any strawberries
this year."

The messenger, weary of delay, left the room, saying to Rodolphe, "You
have till four o'clock to pay."

"There is no time like the present," replied Rodolphe. "The humbug," he
added regretfully, following the cocked hat with his eyes, "he has taken
away his bag."

Rodolphe drew the curtains of his bed and tried to retrace the path to
his inheritance, but he made a mistake on the road and proudly entered
into a dream in which the manager of the Theatre Francais came hat in
hand to ask him for a drama for his theater, and in which he, aware of
the customary practice, asked for an advance. But at the very moment
when the manager appeared to be willing to comply the sleeper was again
half awakened by the entry of a fresh personage, another creature of the
15th.

It was Monsieur Benoit, landlord of the lodging house in which Rodolphe
was residing. Monsieur Benoit was at once the landlord, the bootmaker
and the money lender of his lodgers. On this morning he exhaled a
frightful odor of bad brandy and overdue rent. He carried an empty bag
in his hand.

"The deuce," thought Rodolphe, "this is not the manager of the Theater
Francais, he would have a white cravat and the bag would be full."

"Good morning, Monsieur Rodolphe," said Mo