“There’s no trade at all. I scream myself hoarse all day, and choke myself for twopence halfpenny. I don’t know what’s to come of it all. But you seem to have a nice little custom.” “What’s the good of that, with a whole house on one’s hands? It’s just my luck; the old tenants go, and the new ones don’t come.” “What’s the matter, then?” “I think the devil’s in it. There was a nice man on the first floor-gone; a decent family on the third, all right except that the man beat his wife every night, and made such a row that no one could sleep—gone also. I put up notices—no one even looks at them! A few months ago—it was the middle of December, the day of the last execution—” “The 15th, then,” said the hawker. “I cried it, so I know; it’s my trade, that.” “Very well, then, the 15th,” resumed widow Masson. “On that day, then, I let the cellar to a man who said he was a wine merchant, and who paid a term in advance, seeing that I didn’t know him, and wouldn’t have lent him a farthing on the strength of his good looks. He was a little bit of a man, no taller than that,”—contemptuously holding out her hand,—“and he had two round eyes which I didn’t like at, all. He certainly paid, he did that, but we are more than half through the second term and I have no news of my tenant.” “And have you never seen him since?” “Yes, once—no, twice. Let’s see—three times, I am sure. He came with a hand-cart and a commissionaire, and had a big chest taken downstairs—a case which he said contained wine in bottles.... “No, he came before that, with a workman I think. “Really, I don’t know if it was before or after—doesn’t matter. Anyhow, it was bottled wine. The third time he brought a mason, and I am sure they quarreled. I heard their voices. He carried off the key, and I have seen neither him nor his wine again. I have another key, and I went down one day; perhaps the rats have drunk the wine and eaten the chest, for there certainly is nothing there any more than there is in my hand now. Nevertheless, I saw what I saw. A big chest, very big, quite new, and corded all round with strong rope.” “Now, what day was that?” asked the hawker. “What day? Well, it was—no, I can’t remember.” “Nor I either; I am getting stupid. Let’s have another little glass-shall we? just to clear our memories!” The expedient was not crowned with success, the memories failed to recover themselves. The crowd waited, attentive, as may be supposed. Suddenly the hawker exclaimed: “What a fool I am! I am going to find that, if only I have still got it.” She felt eagerly in the pocket of her underskirt, and produced several pieces of dirty, crumpled paper. As she unfolded one after another, she asked: “A big chest, wasn’t it?” “Yes, very big.” “And quite new?” “Quite new.” “And corded?” “Yes, I can see it now.” “So can I, good gracious! It was the day when I sold the history of Leroi de Valines, the 1st of February.” “Yes, it was a Saturday; the next day was Sunday.”