hated her, under the pretence
that she was not in her proper place, that no one knew who or what she
was, and that it was absurd that he--he, Casimir--should be compelled
to receive orders from her. The infamous slander which Mademoiselle
Marguerite had overheard on her way home from church, "There goes the
rich Count de Chalusse's mistress," was M. Casimir's work. He had sworn
to be avenged on this haughty creature; and no one can say what he
might have attempted, if it had not been for the intervention of the
magistrate. Imperatively called to order, M. Casimir consoled himself
by the thought that the magistrate had intrusted him with eight thousand
francs and the charge of the establishment. Nothing could have
pleased him better. First and foremost, it afforded him a magnificent
opportunity to display his authority and act the master, and it also
enabled him to carry out his compact with Victor Chupin, and repair to
the rendezvous which M. Isidore Fortunat had appointed.

Leaving his comrades to watch the magistrate's operations, he sent M.
Bourigeau to report the count's death at the district mayor's office,
and then lighting a cigar he walked out of the house, and strolled
leisurely up the Rue de Courcelles. The place appointed for his meeting
with M. Fortunat was on the Boulevard Haussmann, almost opposite
Binder's, the famous carriage builder. Although it was rather a
wine-shop than a restaurant, a capital breakfast could be obtained there
as M. Casimir had ascertained to his satisfaction several times before.
"Has no one called for me?" he asked, as he went in.

"No one."

He consulted his watch, and evinced considerable surprise. "Not yet
noon!" he exclaimed. "I'm in advance; and as that is the case, give me a
glass of absinthe and a newspaper."

He was obeyed with far more alacrity than his deceased master had ever
required him to show, and he forthwith plunged into the report of
the doings at the Bourse, with the eagerness of a man who has an
all-sufficient reason for his anxiety in a drawer at home. Having
emptied one glass of absinthe, he was about to order a second, when he
felt a tap on the shoulder, and on turning round he beheld M. Isidore
Fortunat.

In accordance with his wont, the agent was attired in a style of severe
elegance--with gloves and boots fitting him to perfection--but an
unusually winning smile played upon his lips. "You see I have been
waiting for you," exclaimed M. Casimir.

"I