The five commercial travellers rose, and, bowing as they passed their host, went out in search, after the manner of their kind, of coffee and backgammon at the Café de l’Univers in the Rue de Périgueux. It is only foreigners who linger over coffee, liqueurs and tobacco in the little inns of France. Presently Félise went off to the bureau to make up the day’s accounts, and Bigourdin, having smoked a thoughtful cigarette, crossed over to Martin and Corinna. After the good hotel-keeper’s enquiry as to their gastronomic satisfaction, he swept his hand through his inch-high standing stubble of black hair, and addressed Martin. “Monsieur Over—Oversh—forgive me if I cannot pronounce your name——” “Overshaw,” said Martin distinctly. “Auvershaud—Auverchat—_non—c’est bigrement difficile_.” “Then call me Monsieur Martin, _à la française_.” “And me, Mademoiselle Corinne,” laughed Corinna. “_Voilà!_” cried Bigourdin, delighted. “Those are names familiar to every Frenchman.” Then his brow clouded. “Well, Monsieur Martin, there is something I would say to you. What profession does my good brother-in-law exercise in Paris?” Martin and Corinna exchanged glances. “I scarcely know,” said Corinna. “Nor I,” said Martin. “It is on account of my niece, his daughter, that I ask. You permit me to sit down for a moment?” He drew a chair. “You must understand at once,” said he, “that I have nothing against Monsieur Fortinbras. I love him like myself. But, on the other hand, I also love my little niece. She is very simple, very innocent, and does not appreciate the subtleties of the great world. She adores her father.” “I can quite understand that,” said Martin, “and I am sure that he adores her.” “Precisely,” said Bigourdin. “That is why I would like you to have no doubt as to the profession of my brother-in-law. You have never, by any chance, Mademoiselle Corinne, heard him called ‘_Le Marchand de Bonheur_’?” “Never,” said Corinna, meeting his eyes. “Never,” echoed Martin. “Not even when he advised you to come here? It is for Félise that I ask.” “No,” said Corinna. “Certainly not,” said Martin. “But you have heard that he is an _avoué_?” “An English solicitor practising in Paris. Of course,” said Martin. “A very clever solicitor,” said Corinna. Bigourdin smote his chest with his great hand. “I thank you with all my heart for your understanding. You are the first persons she has met who know her father—it is somewhat embarrassing, what I say—and she, in her innocence, will ask you questions, which he did not foresee——” “There will be no difficulty in answering them,” replied Martin. “_Encore merci_,” said Bigourdin. “You must know that Félise came to us at five years old, when my poor wife was living—she died ten years ago—I am a widower. She is to me like my own daughter. Although,” he added, with a smile and a touch of vanity, “I am not quite so old as that. My sister, her mother, is older than I.” “She is alive then?” asked Corinna.