On leaving Violette, Chicotin met Monsieur de Roncherolle on the stairs, going up to his room. "Ah! are you coming from my room, my boy?" said the gouty gentleman when he recognized his usual messenger. "No, bourgeois, no; I am coming from the room over yours." "Over mine? What, are there people perched higher than I am? I thought that I acted as lightning rod for the house." "Oh, no, monsieur, there's a very pretty young girl, who lives all alone above you." "Ah! you rascal! I see,--this girl is your mistress!" "No, monsieur, you don't see at all. The poor girl is adored by one of my friends, and I should never think of such a thing as making love to her, because, you see, I ain't capable of being false to a friend, although I'm only a messenger." "You are right, my boy, you are right," murmured Roncherolle, hanging his head, "for that doesn't bring good luck." "But if you knew all that has happened to the poor girl! Just imagine, monsieur, that if it hadn't been for me, she would have jumped into the canal last night." "Indeed! for what reason? Desperate with love--her lover has abandoned her, I suppose?" "No, he still loves her, he thinks of nothing but her; he thinks that she was unfaithful to him; he is convinced that she has listened to a fine young dandy who makes eyes at her, and who has boasted of having been her lover." "And why do you think that it isn't true?" "Why, bourgeois? Because, last night, when she went aboard the coal barge, with the intention of carrying out her fatal plan, she couldn't have suspected that I was there, hidden behind the coal; and before she jumped into the water, she knelt down, to make a last prayer to the good Lord. She asked Him to forgive her for putting an end to her life, but she said that she didn't feel strong enough to live, despised and humiliated by everybody, abandoned by everybody she loved, when she had done nothing to reproach herself for. When she said that, she couldn't guess that anyone was listening to her, and she was getting ready to die. Well, I say that at such a time she couldn't lie; ain't that right, monsieur?" Roncherolle tapped Chicotin on the shoulder and smiled. "He doesn't reason badly, the rascal.--But what does your little protegee do?" "She is a flower girl, monsieur. Now I think of it, you know her; she is the one you bought a bouquet of the first time I had the honor of meeting you,--when you told me to come with you." "The deuce! is it possible that it is that pretty, attractive girl? for she is remarkably lovely, this friend of yours." "Yes, monsieur, yes; she's the one; Violette, they call her." "But wait a moment--if it's she, why the young dandy who claims to be her lover must be a certain Monsieur Jericourt." "Just so, master; Jericourt's his name--a man who writes plays; do you know him?" "I dined with him a short time ago." "Do you know him well?" "No, thank God! Why do you ask me that?"