“No, no! that’s not it,” said Cerizet; “he meant to mark the rupture.  ‘I will not owe you even a dinner,’ is what he says to me.”

“But, after all,” said Dutocq, “this banquet was given to celebrate your enthronement as principal tenant of the grand house.  Well, he has failed to get you the lease, and I can understand that his conscience was uneasy at letting you pay for a dinner which, like those notes of mine, were an ‘obligation without cause.’”

Cerizet made no reply to this malicious observation.  They had reached the counter where reigned the dame who had permitted the improper payment, and, for the sake of his dignity, the usurer thought it proper to make a fuss.  After which the two men departed, and the copying-clerk took his employer to a low coffee-house in the Passage du Saumon.  There Cerizet recovered his good-humor; he was like a fish out of water suddenly returned to his native element; for he had reached that state of degradation when he felt ill at ease in places frequented by good society; and it was with a sort of sensuous pleasure that he felt himself back in the vulgar place where they were noisily playing pool for the benefit of a “former conqueror of the Bastille.”

In this establishment Cerizet enjoyed the fame of being a skilful billiard-player, and he was now entreated to take part in a game already begun.  In technical language, he “bought his ball”; that is, one of the players sold him his turn and his chances.  Dutocq profited by this arrangement to slip away, on pretence of inquiring for a sick friend.

Presently, in his shirt-sleeves, with a pipe between his lips, Cerizet made one of those masterly strokes which bring down the house with frantic applause.  As he waited a moment, looking about him triumphantly, his eye lighted on a terrible kill-joy.  Standing among the spectators with his chin on his cane, du Portail was steadily watching him.

A tinge of red showed itself in Cerizet’s cheeks.  He hesitated to bow or to recognize the old gentleman, a most unlikely person to meet in such a place.  Not knowing how to take the unpleasant encounter, he went on playing; but his hand betrayed his uneasiness, and presently an unlucky stroke threw him out of the game.  While he was putting on his coat in a tolerably ill-humor, du Portail passed, almost brushing him, on his way to the door.

“Rue Montmartre, at the farther end of the Passage,” said the old man, in a low tone.

When they met, Cerizet had the bad taste to try to explain the disreputable position in which he had just been detected.

“But,” said du Portail, “in order to see you there, I had to be there myself.”

“True,” returned Cerizet.  “I was rather surprised to see a quiet inhabitant of the Saint-Sulpice quarter in such a place.”

“It merely proves to you,” said the little old man, in a tone which cut short all explanation, and all curiosity, “that I am in the habit of going pretty nearly everywhere, and that my star leads me into the path of those persons whom I wish to meet.  I was thinking of you at the very moment you came in.  Well, what have you done?”