To all appearance, M. Fortunat listened with the mere superficial interest which ordinary politeness requires one to show, but in reality his heart was filled with intense delight. Coming here without any clearly-defined plan, circumstances had served him a thousand times better than he could reasonably have hoped. He had preserved his power over the Vantrassons, had won their confidence, had succeeded in obtaining a tete-a-tete with the wife, and to crown all, this woman alluded, of her own accord, to the very subject upon which he was longing to question her. “Ah! if I were only back in the Count’s household again,” she exclaimed. “Six hundred francs a year, and gifts worth double that amount. Those were good times for me. But you know how it is--one is never content with one’s lot, and then the heart is weak----” She had not succeeded in finding the sweet wine which she proposed to her guest; so in its place she substituted a mixture of ratafia and brandy in two large glasses which she placed upon the counter. “One evening, to my sorrow,” she resumed, “I met Vantrasson at a ball. It was the 13th day of the month. I might have known no good would come of it. Ah, you should have seen him at that time, in full uniform. He belonged to the Paris Guards then. All the women were crazy about soldiers, and my head was turned, too----” Her tone, her gestures, and the compression of her thin lips, revealed the bitterness of her disappointment and her unavailing regret. “Ah, these handsome men!” she continued; “don’t talk to me about them! This one had heard of my savings. I had nineteen thousand francs, so he begged me to marry him, and I was fool enough to consent. Yes, fool--for I was forty, and he was only thirty. I might have known it was my money that he wanted, and not me. However, I gave up my situation, and even purchased a substitute for him, in order that I might have him all to myself.” She had gradually warmed with her theme, as she described her confidence and blind credulity, and then, with a tragic gesture, as if she desired to drive away these cruel memories, she suddenly seized her glass and emptied it at a draught. Chupin, who was still at his post outside, experienced a thrill of envy, and involuntarily licked his lips. “A mixed ratafia,” he said, longingly. “I shouldn’t object to one myself.”