Fortunat now drew from his desk a large portfolio, crammed full of
letters, receipts, bills, deeds of property, and old parchments.
"I can certainly discover the necessary pretext here," he
murmured, rummaging through the mass of papers. But he did not at
once find what he sought, and he was growing impatient, as could
be seen by his feverish haste, when all at once he paused with a
sigh of relief. "At last!"
He held in his hand a soiled and crumpled note of hand, affixed by
a pin to a huissier's protest, thus proving conclusively that it
had been dishonored. M. Fortunat waved these strips of paper
triumphantly, and with a satisfied air exclaimed: "It is here
that I must strike; it is here--if Casimir hasn't deceived me--
that I shall find the indispensable information I need."
He was in such haste that he did not wait to put his portfolio in
order. He threw it with the papers it had contained into the
drawer of his desk again, and, approaching Chupin, he asked, "It
was you, was it not, Victor, who obtained that information
respecting the solvency of the Vantrassons, husband and wife, who
let out furnished rooms?"
"Yes, monsieur, and I gave you the answer: nothing to hope for----"
"I know; but that doesn't matter. Do you remember their address?"
"Perfectly. They are now living on the Asnieres Road, beyond the
fortifications, on the right hand side."
"What is the number?"
Chupin hesitated, reflected for a moment, and then began to
scratch his head furiously, as he was in the habit of doing
whenever his memory failed him and he wished to recall it to duty.
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