“A complaint, I expect?” replied the veteran. “Ah! yes; we have been hard on Mariette. What would you have? I don’t know the why and wherefore of it yet.—But if you want satisfaction, I am ready for you,” he added, glancing at a collection of small arms and foils stacked in a corner, the armory of the modern warrior. “That was still further from my intention, sir. I have come to speak to the editor.” “Nobody is ever here before four o’clock.” “Look you here, Giroudeau, old chap,” remarked a voice, “I make it eleven columns; eleven columns at five francs apiece is fifty-five francs, and I have only been paid forty; so you owe me another fifteen francs, as I have been telling you.” These words proceeded from a little weasel-face, pallid and semi-transparent as the half-boiled white of an egg; two slits of eyes looked out of it, mild blue in tint, but appallingly malignant in expression; and the owner, an insignificant young man, was completely hidden by the veteran’s opaque person. It was a blood-curdling voice, a sound between the mewing of a cat and the wheezy chokings of a hyena. “Yes, yes, my little militiaman,” retorted he of the medal, “but you are counting the headings and white lines. I have Finot’s instructions to add up the totals of the lines, and to divide them by the proper number for each column; and after I performed that concentrating operation on your copy, there were three columns less.” “He doesn’t pay for the blanks, the Jew! He reckons them in though when he sends up the total of his work to his partner, and he gets paid for them too. I will go and see Étienne Lousteau, Vernou——” “I cannot go beyond my orders, my boy,” said the veteran. “What! do you cry out against your foster-mother for a matter of fifteen francs? you that turn out an article as easily as I smoke a cigar. Fifteen francs! why, you will give a bowl of punch to your friends, or win an extra game of billiards, and there’s an end of it!” “Finot’s savings will cost him very dear,” said the contributor as he took his departure. “Now, would not anybody think that he was Rousseau and Voltaire rolled in one?” the cashier remarked to himself as he glanced at Lucien. “I will come in again at four, sir,” said Lucien.