“To return to Gagny and then come here again would be a waste of time; besides, if you travel alone, you expose yourself to a thousand encounters that are most annoying to a young lady. It seems to me, therefore, that the best thing for you to do, in view of your position, is to wait here until Monfréville returns.” “Here, monsieur! alone in this house, with nobody but the little boy I saw downstairs,” replied Louise, with a shudder of dismay; “oh! I should not dare.” “Alone, my child? no, indeed. If that were the case I would not make the suggestion; but there is a concierge here, Monfréville’s confidential servant, a most respectable person. That little fellow is her nephew; she probably is not far away, and he is watching the house during her absence.” “Oh! that is a very different matter! If there is a respectable woman here, and she is willing to look after me until Monsieur de Monfréville returns----” “Wait; I will go down and see what has become of her.” Daréna hurried downstairs and said to Poterne: “You will send this little rascal away instantly and find a woman between forty and sixty years of age, who has a face that is somewhere near respectable; that will give the girl confidence, and she will stay here. I am not sorry to get rid of Monsieur Bruno anyway, after he admitted so readily those people who ruined our last affair.” “A respectable woman,” said Poterne--”I don’t know any such. How in the devil do you expect me to find anything of the kind at La Courtille?” “Where you choose--nonsense--a dealer in old clothes--a fortune-teller--a charwoman--and teach her her lesson.” Daréna returned to keep Louise company and told her that the concierge had gone to the central market, because there was no market in that quarter, but that she would soon return. Meanwhile Poterne began by discharging Monsieur Bruno, who was much displeased to be turned out-of-doors, and who ventured to indulge in some far from respectful gestures as he withdrew. But Poterne did not amuse himself watching Bruno’s antics; he went about to the neighboring wine-shops, and from house to house, inquiring for what he wanted. At last, after two hours search, he found it. He returned to the house with a woman of about fifty years, tall as a grenadier, with a cap on her head which certainly had not been washed for a year, and a dress the color of which was no longer distinguishable; a pimply face, blear-eyes and a nose smeared with snuff completed her portrait. “This is Madame Ratouille, Monsieur de Monfréville’s confidential servant,” said Poterne, presenting his companion.