I would rather have a room under the eaves in the dear old Bréda quarter! The only thing one can do here is to sleep! and as my gout permits it, I will take a nap, while I await the return of my messenger. He has a mighty cunning air, that fellow; he reminds me of a little Norman whom I employed in 1830, or thereabouts, and whom I surprised one day throwing oil on my trousers and coat, because I usually made him a present of my clothes as soon as they had any spots on them.” Monsieur de Roncherolle fell asleep, dreaming of his past. It is what a man usually does who is on the decline, whereas in youth he dreams of the future. Chicotin’s shrill voice woke the ex-gallant abruptly, and he opened his eyes, muttering: “Who is the rascal who dares to enter my room without ringing? Ten thousand devils! I was dreaming that I was at Baden-Baden again. Alas! I must return to the sad reality.--It’s you, is it, my boy? Well, what reply to your message?” “Here it is, monsieur.” As he spoke, Chicotin held out the note and the bouquet, which he still had in his hands. “What! you have brought them both back? She refused my bouquet and my letter?” “Why, no, monsieur, the lady did not refuse anything, because I didn’t find her; she has moved!” “Pardieu! I thought you were cleverer than this, my boy! Because a person has changed her lodgings, you can’t find her! There’s a sharp messenger for you!” “I am no more stupid than others, monsieur, and you will see if it’s my fault. I went to Rue de Provence, to the number you gave me; a fine house, good style. I asked the concierge, who has a lodge furnished better than this room, for Madame la Baronne de Grangeville. He opened his eyes, looked at his wife who was sipping coffee from a silver cup, and said to her: ‘The Baronne de Grangeville--do you know her, wife?’ and his wife drank her coffee first and then answered: ‘We haven’t got anybody here of that name.’--‘But,’ I said to her, ‘that lady did live in this house; the gentleman who sent me is certain of it; if she’s moved, she must have left her address. Give me that and I will go away.’--‘How long ago did this baroness live here?’ asked the concierge.--‘Twelve years,’ I said.--At that the husband and wife began to laugh, and said to me: ‘In twelve years a lot of water has flowed under the bridge, my boy. It’s seven years now since we took the place of the former concierge, who died here, and we never heard the name of your baroness. If the other concierge was alive, perhaps he might know her address. But he’s at Montmartre, you know where; perhaps you’ll go there and ask him.’ Faith, monsieur, I thought it wasn’t worth while to go to Montmartre, so I came back with your letter and your bouquet. Do you still think that it’s my fault?” Monsieur de Roncherolle took the articles which Chicotin handed him. He tore up the letter, muttering: