"For some time past he looked as if something troubled him." "It was, perhaps, concerning Louise." "Louise?" "Oh! I only repeat what Mother Seraphin said this morning," "What?" "That he was the lover of Louise, and the--" "Oh! the cunning fellow." "Stop, stop, stop!" "Bah!" "It is not true!" "How do you know that, Chalomel?" "It is not two weeks since, that Germain told me, in confidence, that he was dead in love with a little sewing girl, whom he had known in the house where he lived; he had tears in his eyes when he spoke to me about her." "Oh!" "He says that Faublas is his hero, and yet he is simple enough, stupid enough, not to comprehend that one can be in love with one and the love of another." "I tell you that Germain spoke seriously." At this moment the chief clerk entered the office. "Well," said he. "Chalomel, have you finished all your errands?" "Yes, M. Dubois, I have been to M. de Saint Remy: he will be here shortly to pay." "And to Countess M'Gregor?" "Likewise; here is the answer." "And to Countess d'Orbigny?" "She is much obliged; she arrived yesterday from Normandy, she did not expect an answer so soon; here is her letter. I have also been to the Marquis d'Harville's steward, as he required, for the charges of the contract I signed the other day at the hotel." "You told him that it was not pressing?" "Yes, but he would pay it. There is the money. Ah! I forgot that this card was here, below, at the porter's; the words in pencil written underneath by the porter; this gentleman asked for M. Ferrand; he left this." "'WALTER MURPHY,'" read the chief clerk; and then in pencil, "'_Will return at three o'clock on important business_.' I do not know this name." "Oh! I forgot," continued Chalomel; "M. Badinot said it was all right, that M. Ferrand should do as he pleased; that would be always right." "He did not give a written answer?" "No, sir, he said he hadn't time." "Very well." "M. Charles Robert will also come in the course of the day to speak to the governor; it appears he fought a duel yesterday with the Duke of Lucenay." "Is he wounded?" "I believe not, or they would have told me of it at his house." "Look! here is a carriage stopping." "Oh! the fine horses, are they not mettlesome." "And the fat English coachman, with his white wig and brown livery, with silver lace and epaulets like a colonel!" "An embassador, surely." "And the chasseur, has not he enough silver lace?" "And grand mustachios." "Hold!" said Chalomel, "it is the carriage of the Viscount de Saint Remy." "Ain't it stylish? Whew!" Soon afterward Saint Remy entered the office. We have described the charming face, the exquisite elegance, the ravishing bearing of Saint Remy, arrived the previous evening from Arnouville Farm, belonging to the Duchess Lucenay, where he had found a refuge from the bailiffs.