“Very well; call it imagination, if you like,” replied the tutor; “but I know how these things are arranged. At all events, I don’t mean to let the ‘coppers’ nab me this time. You others, of course, will please yourselves, but if you take my advice—and you especially, Monsieur Lebigre—you’ll take care not to let your establishment be compromised, or the authorities will close it.” At this Logre could not restrain a smile. On several subsequent occasions Charvet plied him and Lebigre with similar arguments, as though he wished to detach them from Florent’s project by frightening them; and he was much surprised at the calmness and confidence which they both continued to manifest. For his own part, he still came pretty regularly in the evening with Clemence. The tall brunette was no longer a clerk at the fish auctions—Monsieur Manoury had discharged her. “Those salesmen are all scoundrels!” Logre growled, when he heard of her dismissal. Thereupon Clemence, who, lolling back against the partition, was rolling a cigarette between her long, slim fingers, replied in a sharp voice: “Oh, it’s fair fighting! We don’t hold the same political views, you know. That fellow Manoury, who’s making no end of money, would lick the Emperor’s boots. For my part, if I were an auctioneer, I wouldn’t keep him in my service for an hour.” The truth was that she had been indulging in some clumsy pleasantry, amusing herself one day by inscribing in the sale-book, alongside of the dabs and skate and mackerel sold by auction, the names of some of the best-known ladies and gentlemen of the Court. This bestowal of piscine names upon high dignitaries, these entries of the sale of duchesses and baronesses at thirty sous apiece, had caused Monsieur Manoury much alarm. Gavard was still laughing over it. “Well, never mind!” said he, patting Clemence’s arm; “you are every inch a man, you are!” Clemence had discovered a new method of mixing her grog. She began by filling her glass with hot water; and after adding some sugar she poured the rum drop by drop upon the slice of lemon floating on the surface, in such wise that it did not mix with the water. Then she lighted it and with a grave expression watched it blaze, slowly smoking her cigarette while the flame of the alcohol cast a greenish tinge over her face. “Grog,” however, was an expensive luxury in which she could not afford to indulge after she had lost her place. Charvet told her, with a strained laugh, that she was no longer a millionaire. She supported herself by giving French lessons, at a very early hour in the morning, to a young lady residing in the Rue de Miromesnil, who was perfecting her education in secrecy, unknown even to her maid. And so now Clemence merely ordered a glass of beer in the evenings, but this she drank, it must be admitted, with the most philosophical composure.