Meanwhile all these people are living well; Bois-l'Hery at Mazas has his
meals sent from the Cafe Anglais, and Uncle Passajon is reduced to
living on odds and ends picked up in kitchens. However, we must not
complain too much. There are those who are more unfortunate than we, M.
Francis, for instance, whom I saw at the _Territoriale_ this morning,
pale and thin, with disgraceful linen and ragged cuffs, which he
continues to pull down as a matter of habit.

I was just in the act of broiling a bit of bacon in front of the fire in
the directors' room, my cover being laid on the corner of a marquetry
table with a newspaper underneath in order not to soil it. I invited
Monpavon's valet to share my frugal repast; but, because he has waited
on a marquis, that fellow fancies that he's one of the nobility, and he
thanked me with a dignified air, which made me want to laugh when I
looked at his hollow cheeks. He began by telling me that he was still
without news of his master, that they had sent him away from the club on
Rue Royale where all the papers were under seal and crowds of creditors
swooping down like flocks of swallows on the marquis's trifling effects.
"So that I find myself a little short," added M. Francis. That meant
that he had not a sou in his pocket, that he had slept two nights on the
benches along the boulevards, waked every minute by policemen,
compelled to get up, to feign drunkenness in order to obtain another
shelter. As for eating, I believe that he had not done that for a long
while, for he stared at the food with hungry eyes that made one's heart
ache, and when I had forcibly placed a slice of bacon and a glass of
wine in front of him, he fell on them like a wolf. The blood instantly
came to his cheeks, and as he ate he began to chatter and chatter.

"Do you know, Pere Passajon," he said between two mouthfuls, "I know
where he is--I've seen him."

He winked slyly. For my part, I stared at him in amazement.

"In God's name, what have you seen, Monsieur Francis?"

"The marquis, my master--yonder in the little white house behind Notre
Dame." He did not say the morgue, because that is a too vulgar word. "I
was very sure I should find him there. I went straight there the next
day. And there he was. Oh! very well hidden, I promise you. No one but
his valet de chambre could have recognized him. His hair all gray, his
teeth gone, and his real wrinkles, his sixty-five years that he used to
fix up so well. As