I had become connected at Crespy with a young man who had lived in Paris: his name was Lecornier. He was brother of that gracious person to whom I gave a name in one of my preceding chapters--you will recollect it, although it was only mentioned once--the charming name of Athénaïs, or, in other words, Athena, Minerva, Pallas, although the bearer of it was quite unaware of this fact. Well, ashamed of moving in the aristocratic world of Crespy in my old-fashioned clothes of Villers-Cotterets, I had asked Lecornier, as my build was exactly his, to write to his tailor to make me a coat, a waistcoat and a pair of trousers. Lecornier wrote: I sent my twenty francs as a remittance on account, and, fifteen days later, the tailor forwarded me the goods, enclosing a bill for a hundred and fifty-five francs, from which he had deducted the twenty francs I had sent him on account. It was arranged that the rest of the bill should be liquidated at the rate of twenty francs a month. The tailor's name was Bamps, and he lived in the rue du Helder, No. 12. It will be seen, from his charges, that although Bamps lived in a fashionable quarter, he was neither a Chevreuil nor a Staub; no, he was a journeyman who charged fancy prices, who had drifted from the Latin quarter, where he should always have remained. But for the very reason that his business was small, Bamps had all the more need of the profits it produced. Although I exercised the greatest economy possible, I had not been able to put aside the promised twenty francs when the next month's payment became due. Not having them, of course I could not send them. This first infraction of our treaty made Bamps very uneasy. Nevertheless, Bamps knew that Lecornier belonged to a family well to do, although not wealthy; Lecornier kept his engagements with him with scrupulous punctuality; so he decided to wait, before giving signs of his anxiety. The second month came. With it came the same impossibility on my part, and, consequently, redoubled uneasiness on the part of Bamps. Meanwhile, I had left Crespy--under the circumstances related--and I had returned to Villers-Cotterets. Five or six days after my departure, Bamps, becoming more and more uncomfortable, had written to Lecornier. Lecornier had replied, giving him my fresh address. It therefore came about that one day--about the beginning of the third month after receiving the clothes--as I was lounging on our threshold, the town clock struck one, the diligence from Paris drew up in the square, and a traveller got down from it who asked the conductor two or three questions, took his bearings and came straight to me. I guessed half the truth. Bamps was walking with his knees out like Duguesclin, and nobody but a soldier or a tailor could walk thus. I was not mistaken: the stranger came straight to me and introduced himself; it was Bamps. It was necessary to play something like the scene between Don Juan and M.