However, when she went off, she remarked in a honeyed voice, but with an exceedingly impudent air: “I’ll repay you for your kindness, my lad. I keep a wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres, and if you ever happen to pass that way with one of your comrades, come in, and I’ll reward you with a famous drink!” What had exasperated the porter almost beyond endurance, was the certainty he felt that she was mocking him. “For she didn’t give me her name or address, the old witch!” he growled. “She had better look out, if I ever get hold of her again!” But Chupin had already gone off, unmoved by his informant’s grievances. Now that he had discovered the stratagem which Madame Ferailleur had employed to elude her pursuers, his conjectures were changed into certainties. This information proved that Pascal WAS concealed somewhere in Paris; but where? If he could only find out this woman who had called for the trunks, it would lead to the discovery of Madame Ferailleur and her son but how was he to ascertain the woman’s whereabouts? She had said that she kept a wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres. Was this true? Was it not more likely that this vague direction was only a fresh precaution? This much was certain: Chupin, who knew every wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres, did not remember any such powerful matron as the porter had described. He had not forgotten Madame Vantrasson. But to imagine any bond of interest between Pascal and such a woman as she was, seemed absurd in the extreme. However, as he found himself in such a plight and could not afford to let any chance escape, he repaired merely for form’s sake to the Vantrasson establishment. It had not changed in the least since the evening he visited it in company with M. Fortunat--but seen in the full light of day, it appeared even more dingy and dilapidated. Madame Vantrasson was not in her accustomed place, behind the counter, between her black cat--her latest idol--and the bottles from which she prepared her ratafia, now her supreme consolation here below. There was no one in the shop but the landlord. Seated at a table, with a lighted candle near him, he was engaged in an occupation which would have set Chupin’s mind working if he had noticed it. Vantrasson had taken some wax from a sealed bottle, and, after melting it at the flame of the candle, he let it drop slowly on to the table. He then pressed a sou upon it, and when the wax had become sufficiently cool and stiff, he removed it from the table without destroying the impression, by means of a thin bladed knife similar to those which glaziers use. However, Chupin did not remark this singular employment. He was engaged in mentally ejaculating, “Good! the old woman isn’t here.” And as his plan of campaign was already prepared, he entered without further hesitation.