"She is a very well mannered woman," he murmured, "I feel sure that she was brought up at Saint Denis. I shall at length realize the happiness of having a mistress who is not pitted with the small-pox. Decidedly I will make sacrifices for her. I will go and draw my screw at 'The Scarf of Iris.' I will buy some gloves, and I will take Laure to dinner at a restaurant where table napkins are in use. My coat is not up to much," said he as he dressed himself, "but, bah! black is good wear." And he went out to go to the office of "The Scarf of Iris." Crossing the street he came across an omnibus, on the side of which was pasted a bill, with the words, "Display of Fountains at Versailles, today, Sunday." A thunderbolt falling at Rodolphe's feet would not have produced a deeper impression upon him than the sight of this bill. "Today, Sunday! I had forgotten it," he exclaimed. "I shall not be able to get any money. Today, Sunday!!! All the spare coin in Paris is on its way to Versailles." However, impelled by one of those fabulous hopes to which a man always clings, Rodolphe hurried to the office of the paper, reckoning that some happy chance might have taken the cashier there. Monsieur Boniface had, indeed, looked in for a moment, but had left at once. "For Versailles," said the office messenger to Rodolphe. "Come," said Rodolphe, "it is all over!... But let me see," he thought, "my appointment is for this evening. It is noon, so I have five hours to find five francs in--twenty sous an hour, like the horses in the Bois du Boulogne. Forward." As he found himself in a neighborhood where the journalist, whom he styled the influential critic, resided, Rodolphe thought of having a try at him. "I am sure to find him in," said he, as he ascended the stairs, "it is the day he writes his criticism--there is no fear of his being out. I will borrow five francs of him." "Hallo! it's you, is it?" said the journalist, on seeing Rodolphe. "You come at the right moment. I have a slight service to ask of you." "How lucky it falls out," thought the editor of "The Scarf of Iris." "Were you at the Odeon Theater last night?" "I am always at the Odeon." "You have seen the new piece, then?" "Who else would have seen it? I am the Odeon audience." "That is true," said the critic, "you are one of the caryatides of the theater. It is even rumored that it is you who finds the money for its subvention. Well, that is what I want of you, a summary of the plot of the new piece." "That is easy, I have the memory of a creditor." "Whom is this piece by?" asked the critic of Rodolphe, whilst the latter was writing. "A gentleman." "It cannot be up to much." "Well, it is not as strong as a Turk."