“Now, what day was that?” asked the hawker.

“What day?  Well, it was—­no, I can’t remember.”

“Nor I either; I am getting stupid.  Let’s have another little glass-shall we? just to clear our memories!”

The expedient was not crowned with success, the memories failed to recover themselves.  The crowd waited, attentive, as may be supposed.  Suddenly the hawker exclaimed: 

“What a fool I am!  I am going to find that, if only I have still got it.”

She felt eagerly in the pocket of her underskirt, and produced several pieces of dirty, crumpled paper.  As she unfolded one after another, she asked: 

“A big chest, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, very big.”

“And quite new?”

“Quite new.”

“And corded?”

“Yes, I can see it now.”

“So can I, good gracious!  It was the day when I sold the history of Leroi de Valines, the 1st of February.”

“Yes, it was a Saturday; the next day was Sunday.”

“That’s it, that’s it!—­Saturday, February 1st.  Well, I know that chest too!  I met your wine merchant on the Place du Louvre, and he wasn’t precisely enjoying himself:  one of his creditors wanted to seize the chest, the wine, the whole kettle of fish!  A little man, isn’t he?—­a scarecrow?”

“Just so.”

“And has red hair?”

“That’s the man.”

“And looks a hypocrite?”

“You’ve hit it exactly.”

“And he is a hypocrite! enough to make one shudder!  No doubt he can’t pay his rent!  A thief, my dears, a beggarly thief, who set fire to his own cellar, and who accused me of trying to steal from him, while it was he who cheated me, the villain, out of a piece of twenty-four sous.  It’s lucky I turned up here!  Well, well, we shall have some fun!  Here’s another little business on your hands, and you will have to say where that wine has got to, my dear gossip Derues.”

“Derues!” cried twenty voices all at once.

“What!  Derues who is in Prison?”

“Why, that’s Monsieur de Lamotte’s man.”

“The man who killed Madame de Lamotte?”

“The man who made away with her son?”

“A scoundrel, my dears, who accused me of stealing, an absolute monster!”

“It is just a little unfortunate,” said widow Masson, “that it isn’t the man.  My tenant calls himself Ducoudray.  There’s his name on the register.”

“Confound it, that doesn’t look like it at all,” said the hawker:  “now that’s a bore!  Oh yes, I have a grudge against that thief, who accused me of stealing.  I told him I should sell his history some day.  When that happens, I’ll treat you all round.”