And so, hobbling back again, she brought out a small flat brown paper-packet sealed at both ends. "Ah, I see--from the Emperor!" said Müller. "Did he bring it himself, Madame Duphôt, or did he send it by the Archbishop of Paris?" A faint grin flitted over the little old woman's withered face. "Get along with you, M'sieur Müller," she said. "You're always playing the _farceur_! The parcel was brought by a man who looked like a stonemason." "And nobody has called?" "Nobody, except M'sieur Richard." "Monsieur Richard's visits are always gratifying and delightful--may the _diable_ fly away with him!" said Müller. "What did dear Monsieur Richard want to-day, Madame Duphôt?" "He wanted to see you, and the third-floor gentleman also--about the rent." "Dear Richard! What an admirable memory he has for dates! Did he leave any message, Madame Duphôt?" The old woman looked at me, and hesitated. "He says, M'sieur Müller--he says ..." "Nay, this gentleman is a friend--you may speak out. What does our beloved and respected _propriétaire_ say, Madame Duphôt?" "He says, if you don't both of you pay up the arrears by midday on Sunday next, he'll seize your goods, and turn you into the street." "Ah, I always said he was the nicest man I knew!" observed Müller, gravely. "Anything else, Madame Duphôt?" "Only this, Monsieur Müller--that if you didn't go quietly, he'd take your windows out of the frames and your doors off the hinges." "_Comment_! He bade you give me that message, the miserable old son of a spider! _Quatre-vingt mille plats de diables aux truffes_! Take my windows out of the frames, indeed! Let him try, Madame Duphôt--that's all--let him try!" And with this, Müller, in a towering rage, led the way upstairs, muttering volleys of the most extraordinary and eccentric oaths of his own invention, and leaving the little old _portière_ grinning maliciously in the hall. "But can't you pay him?" said I. "Whether I can, or can't, it seems I must," he replied, kicking open the door of his studio as viciously as if it were the corporeal frame of Monsieur Richard. "The only question is--how? At the present moment, I haven't five francs in the till." "Nor have I more than twenty. How much is it?" "A hundred and sixty--worse luck!" "Haven't the Tapottes paid for any of their ancestors yet?" "Confound it!--yes; they've paid for a Marshal of France and a Farmer General, which are all I've yet finished and sent home. But there was the washerwoman, and the _traiteur_, and the artist's colorman, and, _enfin_, the devil to pay--and the money's gone, somehow!" "I've only just cleared myself from a lot of debts," I said, ruefully, "and I daren't ask either my father or Dr. Chéron for an advance just at present. What is to be done?"