A month elapsed without M. Nioche reappearing, and Newman, who every morning read two or three suicides in the “Figaro,” began to suspect that, mortification proving stubborn, he had sought a balm for his wounded pride in the waters of the Seine.  He had a note of M. Nioche’s address in his pocket-book, and finding himself one day in the quartier, he determined in so far as he might to clear up his doubts.  He repaired to the house in the Rue St. Roch which bore the recorded number, and observed in a neighboring basement, behind a dangling row of neatly inflated gloves, the attentive physiognomy of Bellegarde’s informant—­a sallow person in a dressing-gown—­peering into the street as if she were expecting that amiable nobleman to pass again.  But it was not to her that Newman applied; he simply asked of the portress if M. Nioche were at home.  The portress replied, as the portress invariably replies, that her lodger had gone out barely three minutes before; but then, through the little square hole of her lodge-window taking the measure of Newman’s fortunes, and seeing them, by an unspecified process, refresh the dry places of servitude to occupants of fifth floors on courts, she added that M. Nioche would have had just time to reach the Cafe de la Patrie, round the second corner to the left, at which establishment he regularly spent his afternoons.  Newman thanked her for the information, took the second turning to the left, and arrived at the Cafe de la Patrie.  He felt a momentary hesitation to go in; was it not rather mean to “follow up” poor old Nioche at that rate?  But there passed across his vision an image of a haggard little septuagenarian taking measured sips of a glass of sugar and water and finding them quite impotent to sweeten his desolation.  He opened the door and entered, perceiving nothing at first but a dense cloud of tobacco smoke.  Across this, however, in a corner, he presently descried the figure of M. Nioche, stirring the contents of a deep glass, with a lady seated in front of him.  The lady’s back was turned to Newman, but M. Nioche very soon perceived and recognized his visitor.  Newman had gone toward him, and the old man rose slowly, gazing at him with a more blighted expression even than usual.

“If you are drinking hot punch,” said Newman, “I suppose you are not dead.  That’s all right.  Don’t move.”

M. Nioche stood staring, with a fallen jaw, not daring to put out his hand.  The lady, who sat facing him, turned round in her place and glanced upward with a spirited toss of her head, displaying the agreeable features of his daughter.  She looked at Newman sharply, to see how he was looking at her, then—­I don’t know what she discovered—­she said graciously, “How d’ ye do, monsieur? won’t you come into our little corner?”

“Did you come—­did you come after me?” asked M. Nioche very softly.

“I went to your house to see what had become of you.  I thought you might be sick,” said Newman.