Madame Vauthier disappeared, for Godefroid in telling her to take care of his wood had given an opportunity to her greed.

“Come in this way,” said Godefroid, offering chairs to both debtor and creditor.

The old man conversed standing, but the gardener sat down.

“My good Monsieur Cartier,” went on Godefroid, “rich people do not pay as regularly as you say they do, and you ought not to dun a worthy man for a few louis.  Monsieur draws his pension every six months, and he could not make you an assignment of it for such a paltry sum.  I am willing to advance the money, if you absolutely insist on having it.”

“Monsieur Bernard drew his pension two weeks ago, and has not paid me.  I am sorry to trouble him, of course.”

“Have you furnished him with plants all along?”

“Yes, monsieur, for six years, and he has always paid me.”

Monsieur Bernard, who was listening to some sound in his own rooms and paying no attention to what was being said, now heard a cry through the partitions and hurried away without a word.

“Come, come, my good man,” said Godefroid, taking advantage of the old man’s absence, “bring some nice flowers, your best flowers, this very morning, and tell your wife to send the eggs and milk as usual; I will pay you this evening.”

Cartier looked oddly at Godefroid.

“Then you must know more than Madame Vauthier does; she sent me word to hurry if I hoped to be paid,” he said.  “Neither she nor I can make out why folks who eat nothing but bread and the odds and ends of vegetables, bits of carrots, turnips, and such things, which they get at the back-doors of restaurants,—­yes, monsieur, I assure you I came one day on the little fellow filling an old handbag,—­well, I want to know why such persons spend nearly forty francs a month on flowers.  They say the old man’s pension is only three thousand francs.”

“At any rate,” said Godefroid, “it is not your business to complain if they ruin themselves in flowers.”

“That’s true, monsieur,—­provided they pay me.”

“Bring your bill to me.”

“Very good, monsieur,” said the gardener, with a tinge of respect.  “Monsieur no doubt wants to see the mysterious lady.”

“My good friend,” said Godefroid, stiffly, “you forget yourself.  Go home now and bring fresh plants for those you are to take away.  If you can also supply me with good cream and fresh eggs I will take them, and I will go this morning and take a look at your establishment.”

“It is one of the finest in Paris, monsieur.  I exhibit at the Luxembourg.  My garden, which covers three acres, is on the boulevard, behind the garden of La Grande-Chaumiere.”

“Very good, Monsieur Cartier.  You are, I see, much richer than I. Have some consideration for us, therefore.  Who knows how soon we may have mutual need of each other?”

The gardener went away, much puzzled as to who and what Godefroid might be.