The
vehicle soon reached the Rue de Berry, and drew up in front of a
charming little private house. "Here we are, monsieur," said the
driver, bowing at the door.
M. Fortunat sprang nimbly on to the pavement, and handed five
francs to the coachman, who went off growling and swearing, for he
thought the reward a contemptibly small one, coming as it did from
a man whose life had been saved, according to his own confession.
However, the person the Jehu anathematized certainly did not hear
him. Standing motionless where he had alighted, M. Fortunat
scrutinized the house in front of him with close attention. "So
she lives here," he muttered. "This is the place; but I can't
present myself without knowing her name. I must make some
inquiries."
There was a wine-shop some fifty paces distant, and thither M.
Fortunat hastened, and ordered a glass of currant syrup. As he
slowly sipped the beverage, he pointed to the house in question,
with an air of well-assumed indifference, and asked: "Whom does
that pretty dwelling belong to?"
"To Madame Lia d'Argeles," answered the landlady.
M. Fortunat started. He well remembered that this was the name
the Marquis de Valorsay had mentioned when speaking of the vile
conspiracy he had planned. It was at this woman's house that the
man whom Mademoiselle Marguerite loved had been disgraced! Still
he managed to master his surprise, and in a light, frank tone he
resumed: "What a pretty name! And what does this lady do?"
"What does she do? Why, she amuses herself.
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