Thus he reasoned, trying to dismiss his disquieting thoughts, and restraining his habits of investigation; but in his heart a tormenting voice constantly whispered, “Suppose it is Noel.”

He at length reached the Rue St. Lazare.  Before the door of his house stood a magnificent horse harnessed to an elegant blue brougham.  At the sight of these he stopped.

“A handsome animal!” he said to himself; “my tenants receive some swell people.”

They apparently received visitors of an opposite class also, for, at that moment, he saw M. Clergeot came out, worthy M. Clergeot, whose presence in a house betrayed ruin just as surely as the presence of the undertakers announce a death.  The old detective, who knew everybody, was well acquainted with the worthy banker.  He had even done business with him once, when collecting books.  He stopped him and said:  “Halloa! you old crocodile, you have clients, then, in my house?”

“So it seems,” replied Clergeot dryly, for he does not like being treated with such familiarity.

“Ah! ah!” said old Tabaret.  And, prompted by the very natural curiosity of a landlord who is bound to be very careful about the financial condition of his tenants, he added, “Who the deuce are you ruining now?”

“I am ruining no one,” replied M. Clergeot, with an air of offended dignity.  “Have you ever had reason to complain of me whenever we have done business together?  I think not.  Mention me to the young advocate up there, if you like; he will tell you whether he has reason to regret knowing me.”

These words produced a painful impression on Tabaret.  What, Noel, the prudent Noel, one of Clergeot’s customers!  What did it mean?  Perhaps there was no harm in it; but then he remembered the fifteen thousand francs he had lent Noel on the Thursday.

“Yes,” said he, wishing to obtain some more information, “I know that M. Gerdy spends a pretty round sum.”

Clergeot has the delicacy never to leave his clients undefended when attacked.

“It isn’t he personally,” he objected, “who makes the money dance; its that charming little woman of his.  Ah, she’s no bigger than your thumb, but she’d eat the devil, hoofs, horns, and all!”

What!  Noel had a mistress, a woman whom Clergeot himself, the friend of such creatures, considered expensive!  The revelation, at such a moment, pierced the old man’s heart.  But he dissembled.  A gesture, a look, might awaken the usurer’s mistrust, and close his mouth.

“That’s well known,” replied Tabaret in a careless tone.  “Youth must have it’s day.  But what do you suppose the wench costs him a year?”

“Oh, I don’t know!  He made the mistake of not fixing a price with her.  According to my calculation, she must have, during the four years that she has been under his protection, cost him close upon five hundred thousand francs.”

Four years?  Five hundred thousand francs!  These words, these figures, burst like bombshells on old Tabaret’s brain.  Half a million!  In that case, Noel was utterly ruined.  But then—­