a reply. "I certainly
don't come to call on him," he answered. "My reason for inquiring is
this: just now, as I passed near the Madeleine, a very elegant lady
called me, and said: 'M. de Coralth lives in the Rue d'Anjou, but
I've forgotten the number. I can't go about from door to door making
inquiries, so if you'll go there and ascertain his address for me, I'll
give you five francs for yourself,' so my money's made."

Profiting by his old Parisian experience, Chupin had chosen such a
clever excuse that both his listeners heartily laughed. "Well, Father
Moulinet," cried the servant in the red waistcoat, "what do you say
to that? Are there any elegant ladies who give five francs for YOUR
address?"

"Is there any lady who's likely to send such flowers as these to YOU?"
was the response.

Chupin was about to retire with a bow, when the concierge stopped him.
"You accomplish your errands so well that perhaps you'd be willing to
take these flower-pots up to the second floor, if we gave you a glass of
wine!"

No proposal could have suited Chupin better. Although he was prone to
exaggerate his own powers and the fecundity of his resources, he had not
flattered himself with the hope that he should succeed in crossing
the threshold of M. de Coralth's rooms. For, without any great mental
effort, he had realized that the servant arrayed in the red waistcoat
was in the viscount's employ, and these flowers were to be carried to
his apartments. However any signs of satisfaction would have seemed
singular under the circumstances, and so he sulkily replied: "A glass of
wine! you had better say two."

"Well, I'll say a whole bottleful, my boy, if that suits you any
better," replied the servant, with the charming good-nature so often
displayed by people who are giving other folk's property away.

"Then I'm at your service!" exclaimed Chupin. And, loading himself
with a host of flower-pots as skilfully as if he had been accustomed to
handling them all his life, he added: "Now, lead the way."

The valet and the concierge preceded him with empty hands, of course;
and, on reaching the second floor, they opened a door, and said: "This
is the place. Come in."

Chupin had expected to find that M. de Coralth's apartments were
handsomer than his own in the Faubourg Saint Denis; but he had scarcely
imagined such luxury as pervaded this establishment. The chandeliers
seemed marvels in his eyes; and the sumptuous chairs and couches
ecli