“Ah! there’s the old man going now to fetch a roll and cream for his daughter’s tea,—­yes, tea! she lives on tea, that lady.  She drinks it twice a day.  And twice a week she has to have sweet things.  Oh! she’s dainty!  The old man buys cakes and pates from the pastry cook in the rue de Buci.  He don’t care what he spends, if it’s for her.  He calls her his daughter!  It ain’t often that men of his age do for a daughter what he does for her!  He just kills himself, he and Auguste too, for that woman.  Monsieur is just like me; I’d give anything to see her.  Monsieur Berton says she’s a monster,—­something like those they show for money.  That’s the reason they’ve come to live here, in this lonely quarter.  Well, so monsieur thinks of dining at Madame Machillot’s, does he?”

“Yes, I think of making an arrangement there.”

“Monsieur, it isn’t that I want to interfere, but I must say, comparing food with food, you’d do much better to dine in the rue de Tournon; you needn’t engage by the month, and you’ll find a better table.”

“Whereabouts in the rue de Tournon?”

“At the successors to Madame Giraud.  That’s where the gentlemen upstairs go; they are satisfied, and more than satisfied.”

“Well, I’ll take your advice and dine there to-day.”

“My dear monsieur,” said the woman, emboldened by the good-nature which Godefroid intentionally assumed, “tell me seriously, you are not going to be such a muff as to pay Monsieur Bernard’s debts?  It would really trouble me if you did; for just reflect, my kind monsieur Godefroid, he’s nearly seventy, and after him, what then? not a penny of pension!  How’ll you get paid?  Young men are so imprudent!  Do you know that he owes three thousand francs?”

“To whom?” inquired Godefroid.

“Oh! to whom? that’s not my affair,” said the widow, mysteriously; “it is enough that he does owe them.  Between ourselves I’ll tell you this:  somebody will soon be down on him for that money, and he can’t get a penny of credit now in the quarter just on that account.”

“Three thousand francs!” repeated Godefroid; “oh, you needn’t be afraid I’ll lend him that.  If I had three thousand francs to dispose of I shouldn’t be your lodger.  But I can’t bear to see others suffer, and just for a hundred or so of francs I sha’n’t let my neighbor, a man with white hair too, lack for bread or wood; why, one often loses as much as that at cards.  But three thousand francs! good heavens! what are you thinking of?”

Madame Vauthier, deceived by Godefroid’s apparent frankness, let a smile of satisfaction appear on her specious face, which confirmed all her lodger’s suspicions.  Godefroid was convinced that the old woman was an accomplice in some plot that was brewing against the unfortunate old man.

“It is strange, monsieur,” she went on, “what fancies one takes into one’s head!  You’ll think me very curious, but yesterday, when I saw you talking with Monsieur Bernard I said to myself that you were the clerk of some publisher; for this, you know, is a publisher’s quarter.  I once lodged the foreman of a printing-house in the rue de Vaugirard, and his name was the same as yours—­”