“No, so long as you didn’t find the scent. Hum! more of the ill effects of time. I come back, and I find nobody left: some are dead; others have disappeared. Ah! it’s foolish to travel; or if one must travel, one should do like the Wandering Jew: keep going all the time, and never stop. But the Wandering Jew didn’t have the gout.--Here, my boy, this is for your commission.” Monsieur de Roncherolle paid the messenger handsomely, because the man who has always borne himself like a gentleman retains the habit of making a show of generosity, even when his means allow him no longer to be generous; and sometimes imposes great privations upon himself in order to enjoy the pleasure of throwing money out of the window. “Then monsieur has no further need of my services?” said Chicotin, his appetite whetted by the fee he had received for his errand. “Faith, my boy, I should have been very glad to find the lady to whom I wrote the letter. It isn’t certain that she’s dead, like the concierge of the house where she lived, for she was quite young a dozen years ago, and she should be a woman of about forty now. If chance should make you acquainted with her present residence, come at once and tell me, and you shall have a good pourboire.” “All right, master. I’ll look, I’ll ask questions, and I shall end by finding her. I go into every corner of Paris, you know; but perhaps it will take rather a long time. However, as soon as I find out anything, I’ll come to tell you.” When Chicotin had gone, Monsieur de Roncherolle, whose face had assumed a melancholy expression, looked at the bouquet which he still held, muttering: “Well, I will keep the bouquet; these flowers are very pretty; it’s a long while since anyone gave me any; I will imagine that someone has sent them to me; I have reached the age where I must live on illusions.” XIV THE MOTHER AND THE SON