"And you will try to get a reply. If she will not write one, remember exactly what she says to you." "Word for word." "Now, can you do all this to-day?" "To-day? impossible! the document has to be copied; but to-morrow--to-morrow, I can go to the Hôtel de Santoval." "To-morrow, then, at one o'clock in the afternoon, I will await you here, I will give you my letter, and you will return here and report to me the result of your mission.--See, take this money; I will give you as much more if you serve me adroitly and with discretion!" "You will be content with me, my gentleman, for I am most desirous to serve you often.--Pardon, I think that I cannot be mistaken--you are the Comte de Marvejols?" "Possibly--but try to forget it; I do not wish to be known here, or by your comrade." "Never fear, monseigneur; I no longer know you." "Until to-morrow, then!" Léodgard left the wine shop. Bahuchet, with the keenest delight, counted the gold pieces which he held in his hand, but carefully concealed them from Plumard, who asked him why their new friend had gone away. "Because he had business to attend to, had that most excellent gentleman! It seems to me that we too shall do well to leave the table. It is high time to return to the office." "To the office? what! do you intend to work to-day?" "Why not? Come, Plumard, off we go, my boy! The air will do you good." And Bahuchet led his comrade from the shop; but when they were in the street, as Plumard stumbled at every step instead of going forward, Bahuchet deposited him on a stone bench, and hastened back alone to the solicitor's office. The next day, Léodgard and the little clerk arrived at the wine shop at almost the same moment. The former handed Bahuchet the note for Valentine which he had prepared; and the clerk, who had had no breakfast, promised to perform his mission adroitly. Valentine was alone in her bedroom, buried in meditation. Her brow was stern, and the young woman's thoughts were certainly not of a frivolous description. She did not hear her maid, who had just entered the room, until she said to her: "A young clerk is here, and wishes to know if madame will receive him. He is sent by Madame de Ravenelle. I recognize him--it is the same young man to whom madame intrusted a white plume, before her marriage; it is Monsieur Bahuchet." "Bahuchet!" cried Valentine, in whose mind that name evoked a thousand memories. "Is that little fellow here?" "Yes, madame." "Admit him at once." The little Basochian was ushered into the room; he bent himself double as he entered, retaining, however, the mocking, self-sufficient air which was customary with him, and which was intensified at that moment by the importance of the commission with which he was charged. "My aunt sends you to me, you say, monsieur?" said Valentine, gazing fixedly at the messenger. "What does she want? or rather, with what message are you intrusted?"