I love her, and so
I trust her."
XVII.
M. Isidore Fortunat was not the man to go to sleep over a plan
when it was once formed. Whenever he said to himself, "I'll do
this, or that," he did it as soon as possible--that very evening,
rather than the next day. Having sworn that he would find out
Madame d'Argeles's son, the heir to the Count de Chalusse's
millions, it did not take him long to decide which of his agents
he would select to assist him in this difficult task. Thus his
first care, on returning home, was to ask his bookkeeper for
Victor Chupin's address.
"He lives in the Faubourg Saint-Denis," replied the bookkeeper,
"at No.--."
"Very well," muttered M. Fortunat; "I'll go there as soon as I
have eaten my dinner." And, indeed, as soon as he had swallowed
his coffee, he requested Madame Dodelin to bring him his overcoat,
and half an hour later he reached the door of the house where his
clerk resided.
The house was one of those huge, ungainly structures, large enough
to shelter the population of a small village, with three or four
courtyards, as many staircases as there are letters in the
alphabet, and a concierge who seldom remembers the names of the
tenants except on quarter-days when he goes to collect the rent,
and at New Year, when he expects a gratuity. But, by one of those
lucky chances made expressly for M. Fortunat, the porter did
recollect Chupin, knew him and was kindly disposed toward him, and
so he told the visitor exactly how and where to find him.
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