“And so from one thing to another the two drifted wrecks of the Empire struck up an acquaintance. Little Croizeau was attached to the Empire through his connection with Napoleon’s sisters. He had been their coach-builder, and had frequently dunned them for money; so he gave out that he ‘had had relations with the Imperial family.’ Maxime, duly informed by Antonia of the ‘nice old man’s’ proposals (for so the aunt called Croizeau), wished to see him. Cerizet’s declaration of war had so far taken effect that he of the yellow kid gloves was studying the position of every piece, however insignificant, upon the board; and it so happened that at the mention of that ‘nice old man,’ an ominous tinkling sounded in his ears. One evening, therefore, Maxime seated himself among the book-shelves in the dimly lighted back room, reconnoitred the seven or eight customers through the chink between the green curtains, and took the little coach-builder’s measure. He gauged the man’s infatuation, and was very well satisfied to find that the varnished doors of a tolerably sumptuous future were ready to turn at a word from Antonia so soon as his own fancy had passed off. “‘And that other one yonder?’ asked he, pointing out the stout fine-looking elderly man with the Cross of the Legion of Honor. ‘Who is he?’ “‘A retired custom-house officer.’ “‘The cut of his countenance is not reassuring,’ said Maxime, beholding the Sieur Denisart. “And indeed the old soldier held himself upright as a steeple. His head was remarkable for the amount of powder and pomatum bestowed upon it; he looked almost like a postilion at a fancy ball. Underneath that felted covering, moulded to the top of the wearer’s cranium, appeared an elderly profile, half-official, half-soldierly, with a comical admixture of arrogance,--altogether something like caricatures of the _Constitutionnel_. The sometime official finding that age, and hair-powder, and the conformation of his spine made it impossible to read a word without spectacles, sat displaying a very creditable expanse of chest with all the pride of an old man with a mistress. Like old General Montcornet, that pillar of the Vaudeville, he wore earrings. Denisart was partial to blue; his roomy trousers and well-worn greatcoat were both of blue cloth. “‘How long is it since that old fogy came here?’ inquired Maxime, thinking that he saw danger in the spectacles. “‘Oh, from the beginning,’ returned Antonia, ‘pretty nearly two months ago now.’ “‘Good,” said Maxime to himself, ‘Cerizet only came to me a month ago.--Just get him to talk,’ he added in Antonia’s ear; ‘I want to hear his voice.’ “‘Pshaw,’ said she, ‘that is not so easy. He never says a word to me.’ “‘Then why does he come here?’ demanded Maxime.