By interfering Mme. Cléry meant going _aux renseignements_. Nobody ever got true _renseignements_, especially when there was a marriage in question, except people like her; ladies and gentlemen never get behind the scenes with each other, or, if they do, they never tell what they see there. They are very sweet and smiling when they meet in the salon, and nobody guesses that madame has rated her _femme de chambre_ for not putting the flowers in her hair exactly to her fancy, or that monsieur has flung a boot at his valet for giving him his shaving‐water too hot or too cold. If you want the truth, you must get it by the back‐stairs. This was Mme. Cléry’s belief, and, acting upon it, she went to M. Dalibouze’s _concierge_ in the Rue Jean Beauvais to consult him confidentially about his _locataire_. The first thing to be ascertained before entering on such secondary details as character, conduct, etc., was whether or not the professor was of a good enough family to be entertained at all as a husband for Mlle. de Lemaque. On this _sine qua non_ question the _concierge_ could unfortunately throw no light. The professor had a multitude of friends, all respectable people, many of them _décorés_, who drove to the door in spruce _coupés_, but of his family Pipelet knew nothing; of his personal respectability there was no doubt whatever; he was the kindest of men, a very pearl of tenants, always in before midnight, and gave forty francs to Pipelet on New Year’s day, not to count sundry other little bonuses on minor _fêtes_ during the year. But so long as her mind was in darkness on the main point, all this was no better than sounding brass in the ears of Mme. Cléry. “Has he, or has he not, the _particule_?” she demanded, cutting Pipelet short in the middle of his panegyric. “The _particule_?” repeated Pipelet. “What’s that?” “The _particule nobiliaire_,” explained Mme. Cléry, with a touch of contempt. “There is some question of a marriage between him and one of my ladies; but, if M. Dalibouze hasn’t got the _particule_, it’s no use thinking of it.” “Madame,” said Pipelet, assuming a meditative air—he was completely at sea as to what this essential piece of property might be, but did not like to own his ignorance—“I’m not a man to set up for knowing more of my tenant’s business than I do, and M. Dalibouze has never opened himself to me about how or where his money was placed; but I could give you the name of his agent, if I thought it would not compromise me.” “I’m not a woman to compromise any one that showed me confidence,” said Mme. Cléry, tightening her lips, and bobbing her flaps at Pipelet; “but you need not give me the name of his agent. What sort of a figure should I make at his agent’s! Give me his own name. How does he spell it?” “Spell it!” echoed Pipelet. “A big _D_ or a little _d_?” said Mme. Cléry. “Why, a big _D_, of course! Who ever spelt their name with a little one?” retorted Pipelet.