“All that you say, worthy postman,” went on Laurent, after having drunk off his wine, “confirms me in what I have learned before. Upon my word, I thought they were making fun of me! The fruiterer opposite told me that of nights they let loose dogs whose food is hung up on stakes just out of their reach. These cursed animals think, therefore, that any one likely to come in has designs on their victuals, and would tear one to pieces. You will tell me one might throw them down pieces, but it seems they have been trained to touch nothing except from the hand of the porter.” “The porter of the Baron de Nucingen, whose garden joins at the top that of the Hotel San-Real, told me the same thing,” replied the postman. “Good! my master knows him,” said Laurent, to himself. “Do you know,” he went on, leering at the postman, “I serve a master who is a rare man, and if he took it into his head to kiss the sole of the foot of an empress, she would have to give in to him. If he had need of you, which is what I wish for you, for he is generous, could one count on you?” “Lord, Monsieur Laurent, my name is Moinot. My name is written exactly like _Moineau_, magpie: M-o-i-n-o-t, Moinot.” “Exactly,” said Laurent. “I live at No. 11, Rue des Trois Freres, on the fifth floor,” went on Moinot; “I have a wife and four children. If what you want of me doesn’t transgress the limits of my conscience and my official duties, you understand! I am your man.” “You are an honest fellow,” said Laurent, shaking his hand.... “Paquita Valdes is, no doubt, the mistress of the Marquis de San-Real, the friend of King Ferdinand. Only an old Spanish mummy of eighty years is capable of taking such precautions,” said Henri, when his _valet de chambre_ had related the result of his researches. “Monsieur,” said Laurent, “unless he takes a balloon no one can get into that hotel.” “You are a fool! Is it necessary to get into the hotel to have Paquita, when Paquita can get out of it?” “But, sir, the duenna?” “We will shut her up for a day or two, your duenna.” “So, we shall have Paquita!” said Laurent, rubbing his hands. “Rascal!” answered Henri, “I shall condemn you to the Concha, if you carry your impudence so far as to speak so of a woman before she has become mine.... Turn your thoughts to dressing me, I am going out.”