t any chance escape, he repaired merely for form's
sake to the Vantrasson establishment. It had not changed in the least
since the evening he visited it in company with M. Fortunat--but seen
in the full light of day, it appeared even more dingy and dilapidated.
Madame Vantrasson was not in her accustomed place, behind the counter,
between her black cat--her latest idol--and the bottles from which she
prepared her ratafia, now her supreme consolation here below. There was
no one in the shop but the landlord. Seated at a table, with a lighted
candle near him, he was engaged in an occupation which would have set
Chupin's mind working if he had noticed it. Vantrasson had taken some
wax from a sealed bottle, and, after melting it at the flame of the
candle, he let it drop slowly on to the table. He then pressed a sou
upon it, and when the wax had become sufficiently cool and stiff, he
removed it from the table without destroying the impression, by means of
a thin bladed knife similar to those which glaziers use. However, Chupin
did not remark this singular employment. He was engaged in mentally
ejaculating, "Good! the old woman isn't here." And as his plan of
campaign was already prepared, he entered without further hesitation.

As Vantrasson heard the door turn upon its hinges, he rose so awkwardly,
or rather so skilfully, as to let all his implements, wax, knife, and
impressions, fall on the floor behind the counter. "What can I do to
serve you?" he asked, in a husky voice.

"Nothing. I wished to speak with your wife."

"She has gone out. She works for a family in the morning."

This was a gleam of light. Chupin had not thought of the only hypothesis
that could explain what seemed inexplicable to him. However, he knew how
to conceal his satisfaction, and so with an air of disappointment, he
remarked: "That's too bad! I shall be obliged to call again."

"So you have a secret to tell my wife?"

"Not at all."

"Won't I do as well, then?"

"I'll tell you how it is. I'm employed in the baggage room of the
western railway station, and I wanted to know if your wife didn't call
there a few days ago for some trunks?"

The landlord's features betrayed the vague perturbation of a person who
can count the days by his mistakes, and it was with evident hesitation
that he replied:

"Yes, my wife went to the Havre station for some baggage last Sunday."

"I thought so. Well, this is my errand: either the clerk forgot to ask
he