"No, monsieur; she sold her stock to Mère Thomas, who you see yonder in her place." "She sold her stock?" "Yes, monsieur, and sold it well, too; for it's a good shop. But they say Mamzelle Nicette didn't need it, because she'd made her fortune--come into money." "And where is she now?" "Bless my soul! monsieur, I don't know; she didn't say where she was going, and we don't never see her now." "And that man who used to come to see her every day?" "Why! he kep' on coming, but not so often toward the end." "Did he take her away?" "I don't know nothing about it, monsieur; but I'm inclined to think she sold her stock of her own accord." "When was that?" "Why, near six weeks ago." "And you don't know where she's gone?" "No, monsieur." I paid the messenger and walked away; it was useless to question him any further. Nicette had left her shop; what had become of her? what was she doing? was she living with Raymond? That seemed impossible. Could he have hired an apartment for her? I did not know what to think, but I hastened to Rue Saint-Florentin. My concierge uttered a cry of surprise when she saw me. "Ah! there you are, monsieur! We really thought you must be dead! Do you know you've been away almost six months?" "I know it, Madame Dupont. Give me my keys, please." "In a minute, monsieur, in a minute. I've taken good care of your rooms, I've had your furniture beaten every month, and I've scrubbed and----" "Oh! I'm not at all disturbed. By the way, does Monsieur Raymond still live on my landing?" "No, monsieur, no; he's left, and in his place----" "Do you know his address?" "Yes, monsieur; he left it here; he lives now on Rue Pinon, near the Opéra, No.---- Oh, dear! I've forgotten, but it will come to me. Here's your keys, monsieur." "And that number, Madame Dupont?" "It's surprising; I knew it just the other day. But it ain't a long street." "That's very lucky." "Oh! wait a minute! I forgot, it was so long ago! I've got a letter for you; it's been here six weeks." "A letter!" "Yes. A young woman brought it." "A woman! give it to me, pray." "Here it is, monsieur." I took the letter and hastened upstairs to my room, to escape the concierge's chatter. Once more I was in that dear apartment! how glad I was to be there! But the letter! It seemed to me that the writing--ah! I dared not hope--I broke the seal; it was she--Nicette--who had written to me! "MONSIEUR: