I picked up my _Almanack des 25,000 adresses,_ and began to congratulate myself on not having wasted five francs in its acquisition. I was quickly disillusioned, as will be seen; my cheerful confidence had gone; I felt that sinking of heart which ever increases in proportion as golden dreams give place to reality. I then turned over the leaves of the book purely and simply at hap-hazard, looking at it mechanically, reading without taking it in, when, all at once, I saw a name that I had often heard my mother pronounce, and, each time, in such eulogistic terms that all my spirits revived. That name was General Verdier's, who had served in Egypt, under my father. "Come, come," I said; "the number three is a favourite with the gods; perhaps my third unknown and providential protector will do more for me than the other two--which would be no great tax, seeing the others have not done anything at all." General Verdier lived in the faubourg Montmartre, No. 6. Ten minutes later, I was holding the following terse dialogue with the concierge of his house:-- "Does General Verdier live here, please?" "Fourth floor, small door on the left." I made the concierge repeat it: I believed I must have misunderstood him. Marshal Jourdan and General Sébastiani lived in sumptuous mansions, in the faubourg Saint-Germain and the faubourg Saint-Honoré; entrance was gained to these mansions by gates like those of Gaza. Why, then, should General Verdier live in the rue du faubourg Montmartre, on the fourth floor, and why did one gain access to him through a small doorway? The concierge repeated his words: I had not misunderstood. "Good gracious!" I said, as I climbed the staircase; "this does not look like Marshal Jourdan's lackeys, nor Marshal Sébastiani's Swiss guards. _General Verdier, fourth floor, small door on the left,_ surely this is a man likely to remember my father!" I reached the fourth floor; I discovered the small door; at this door hung a humble, modest, green string. I rang with an uncontrollable fluttering at my heart. This third trial was to decide my opinion of men. Steps approached, the door was opened. A man of about sixty opened the door; he wore a cap edged with astrakan, and was clothed in a green braided jacket and trousers of white calf-skin. He held in his hand a palette full of paints, and under his thumb, which held his palette, was a paint-brush. I looked at the other doors. "I beg your pardon, monsieur," I said; "I am afraid I have made some mistake...." "What is your pleasure, monsieur?" asked the man with the palette. "To present my compliments to General Verdier." "In that case, step in: here you are." I went in, and, when we had crossed a tiny square hall which served as an ante-chamber, I found myself in a studio. "You will allow me to go on with my work, monsieur?" said the painter, placing himself in front of a battlepiece in the construction of which I had interrupted him.