The dwelling was fit for the man; and every thing from the very hall, betrayed his peculiarities. There, evidently, every piece of furniture must have its invariable place, every object its irrevocable shelf or hook. All around were evidences, if not exactly of poverty, at least of small means, and of the artifices of a respectable economy. Cleanliness was carried to its utmost limits: every thing shone. Not a detail but betrayed the industrious hand of the housekeeper, struggling to defend her furniture against the ravages of time. The velvet on the chairs was darned at the angles as with the needle of a fairy. Stitches of new worsted showed through the faded designs on the hearth-rugs. The curtains had been turned so as to display their least worn side. All the guests enumerated by the shop-keeper, and a few others besides, were in the parlor when M. Favoral came in. But, instead of returning their greeting: “Where is Maxence?” he inquired. “I am expecting him, my dear,” said Mme. Favoral gently. “Always behind time,” he scolded. “It is too trifling.” His daughter, Mlle. Gilberte, interrupted him: “Where is my bouquet, father?” she asked. M. Favoral stopped short, struck his forehead, and with the accent of a man who reveals something incredible, prodigious, unheard of, “Forgotten,” he answered, scanning the syllables: “I have for-got-ten it.” It was a fact. Every Saturday, on his way home, he was in the habit of stopping at the old woman’s shop in front of the Church of St. Louis, and buying a bouquet for Mlle. Gilberte. And to-day . . . “Ah! I catch you this time, father!” exclaimed the girl. Meantime, Mme. Favoral, whispering to Mme. Desclavettes: “Positively,” she said in a troubled voice, “something serious must have happened to--my husband. He to forget! He to fail in one of his habits! It is the first time in twenty-six years.” The appearance of Maxence at this moment prevented her from going on. M. Favoral was about to administer a sound reprimand to his son, when dinner was announced. “Come,” exclaimed M. Chapelain, the old lawyer, the conciliating man par excellence,--“come, let us to the table.” They sat down. But Mme. Favoral had scarcely helped the soup, when the bell rang violently. Almost at the same moment the servant appeared, and announced: “The Baron de Thaller!” More pale than his napkin, the cashier stood up. “The manager,” he stammered, “the director of the Mutual Credit Society.” II Close upon the heels of the servant M. de Thaller came.