"
M. Fortunat seemed astonished. "Dash it!" said he. "She must
amuse herself to good purpose to have a house like that. Is she
pretty?"
"That depends on taste. She's no longer young, at any rate; but
she has superb golden hair. And, oh! how white she is--as white
as snow, monsieur--as white as snow! She has a fine figure as
well, and a most distinguished bearing--pays cash, too, to the
very last farthing."
There could no longer be any doubt. The portrait sketched by the
wine-vendor fully corresponded with the description given by the
hotelkeeper in the Rue de Helder. Accordingly, M. Fortunat
drained his glass, and threw fifty centimes on the counter. Then,
crossing the street, he boldly rang at the door of Madame
d'Argeles's house. If any one had asked him what he proposed
doing and saying if he succeeded in effecting an entrance, he
might have replied with perfect sincerity, "I don't know." The
fact is, he had but one aim, one settled purpose in his mind. He
was obstinately, FURIOUSLY resolved to derive some benefit, small
or great, from this mysterious affair. As for the means of
execution, he relied entirely on his audacity and sang-froid,
convinced that they would not fail him when the decisive moment
came. "First of all, I must see this lady," he said to himself.
"The first words will depend solely upon my first impressions.
After that, I shall be guided by circumstances."
An old serving-man, in a quiet, tasteful livery, opened the door,
whereupon M.
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