Lucius thanked Mademoiselle Dolfe for this mark of favour, and went up to number eleven to refresh himself after his journey, with the assistance of as much cold water as can be obtained by hook or by crook in a foreign hotel. His toilet made, he descended to the coffee-room, where he endeavoured to derive entertainment from a flabby Rouen journal while his tardy breakfast was being prepared. This meal dispatched, he went out into the streets of the city, looked for the picturesque old bits he remembered on his last visit, mooned away a pleasant hour in the cathedral, looked in at St. Ouen, and finished his afternoon in the Museum of Arts, contemplating the familiar old pictures, and turning the vellum leaves of a noble missal in the library. He dined at the table d’hôte, and after dinner returned to the Rue Jeanne d’Arques. The little watchmaker had a triumphant air, and at once handed him a slip of flimsy paper with an address written on it in a niggling fly-leggish caligraphy. ‘I had a good deal of trouble with my neighbour,’ he said. ‘He is a disagreeable person, and we have embroiled ourselves a little on the subject of our several dustbins. He objects to vegetable matter; I object more strongly to the shells of stale fish, of which he and his lodgers appear to devour an inordinate quantity, judging from the contents of his dustbin. When first I put the question about Mademoiselle Dumarques I found him utterly impracticable. He knew his landlady’s address, certainly, but it was not his business to communicate her address to other people; she might object to have her address made known; it might be a breach of confidence on his part. I was not a little startled when, with a sudden burst of rage, he brought his clenched fist down upon the table. “Sacrebleu!” he cried; “I divine your intention. Traitor! You are going to write to Mademoiselle Dumarques about my dustbin.” I assured him, as soon as I recovered my scattered senses, that nothing was farther from my thoughts than his dustbin. Nay, I suggested that we should henceforward regulate our dustbins upon a system more in accord with the spirit of the _contrat social_ than had hitherto prevailed between us. In a word, by some judicious quotations from the inimitable Jean Jacques, I finally brought him to a more amiable frame of mind, and induced him to give me the address, and to tell me all he knows about Mademoiselle Dumarques.’ ‘For which devotion to my cause I owe you a thousand thanks,’ said Lucius. ‘Nay, monsieur, I would do much more to serve a fellow creature. The address you have there in your hand. It appears that Mademoiselle Dumarques set up in business for herself some years ago at that address, where she resides alone, or with some pupil to whom she confides the secrets of her art.’