Lucius recrossed the street and entered the watchmaker’s shop. He was pleased to find that mechanician seated before the window examining the intestines of a chronometer through a magnifying glass, but with no appearance of being pressed for time. He was old and gray and small, with a patient expression which promised good nature even towards a stranger. Lucius gave a conciliatory cough and wished him good-morning, a salutation which the watchmaker returned with brisk politeness. He gave a sigh of relief and laid down the chronometer; as if he were rather glad to be done with it for a little while. ‘I regret to say that I do not come as a customer,’ said Lucius. The watchmaker shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as who should say, ‘Fate does not always favour me.’ ‘I come rather to ask your kindly assistance in my search for information about some people who may be dead long ago, for anything I know to the contrary. Have you lived any length of time in this street, sir?’ ‘I have lived in this street all the time that I have lived at all, sir,’ replied the watchmaker. ‘I was born in this house, and my father was born here before me. There is a little notch in yonder door which indicates my height at five years old; my father cut it in all the pride of a paternal heart, my mother looking on with maternal love. My aftergrowth did not realise the promise of that period.’ Lucius tried to look interested in this small domestic episode, but failed somewhat in the endeavour; so eager was he to question the watchmaker about the subject he had at heart. ‘Did you ever hear the name of Dumarques in this street?’ he asked. ‘Did I ever hear my own name?’ exclaimed the watchmaker. ‘One is not more familiar to me than the other. You mean the Dumarques who lived next door.’ ‘Yes, yes—are they there still?’ ‘They! They are dead. It is not every one who lives to the age of Voltaire.’ ‘Are they all dead?’ asked Lucius, disheartened. It seemed strange that an entire family should be swept away within fifteen years. ‘Well, no; I believe Julie Dumarques is still living. But she left Rouen some years ago.’ ‘Do you know where she has gone?’ ‘She went to Paris; but as to her address in Paris—no, I do not know that. But if it be vital to you to learn it—’ ‘It is vital to me.’ ‘I might possibly put you in the way of obtaining the information, or procure it for you.’ ‘I shall be most grateful if you can do me that favour. Any trifling recompense which I can offer you—’ ‘Sir, I require no reward beyond the consciousness of having performed a worthy action. I am a disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau; I live entirely on vegetable diet; and I endeavour to assist my fellow creatures.’ ‘I thank you, sir, for your disinterested kindness. And now perhaps you will lay me under a farther obligation by telling me all you can about these neighbours of yours?’ ‘Willingly, sir.’ ‘Were they tradespeople, or what, these Dumarques?’