er than the next
day. Having sworn that he would find out Madame d'Argeles's son, the
heir to the Count de Chalusse's millions, it did not take him long
to decide which of his agents he would select to assist him in this
difficult task. Thus his first care, on returning home, was to ask his
bookkeeper for Victor Chupin's address.

"He lives in the Faubourg Saint-Denis," replied the bookkeeper, "at
No.--."

"Very well," muttered M. Fortunat; "I'll go there as soon as I have
eaten my dinner." And, indeed, as soon as he had swallowed his coffee,
he requested Madame Dodelin to bring him his overcoat, and half an hour
later he reached the door of the house where his clerk resided.

The house was one of those huge, ungainly structures, large enough
to shelter the population of a small village, with three or four
courtyards, as many staircases as there are letters in the alphabet,
and a concierge who seldom remembers the names of the tenants except on
quarter-days when he goes to collect the rent, and at New Year, when he
expects a gratuity. But, by one of those lucky chances made expressly
for M. Fortunat, the porter did recollect Chupin, knew him and was
kindly disposed toward him, and so he told the visitor exactly how and
where to find him. It was very simple. He had only to cross the first
courtyard, take staircase D, on the left-hand side, ascend to the sixth
floor, go straight ahead, etc., etc.

Thanks to this unusual civility, M. Fortunat did not lose his way more
than five times before reaching the door upon which was fastened a bit
of pasteboard bearing Victor Chupin's name. Noticing that a bell-rope
hung beside the door, M. Fortunat pulled it, whereupon there was a
tinkling, and a voice called out, "Come in!" He complied, and found
himself in a small and cheaply furnished room, which was, however,
radiant with the cleanliness which is in itself a luxury. The waxed
floor shone like a mirror; the furniture was brilliantly polished, and
the counterpane and curtains of the bed were as white as snow. What
first attracted the agent's attention was the number of superfluous
articles scattered about the apartment--some plaster statuettes on
either side of a gilt clock, an etagere crowded with knickknacks, and
five or six passable engravings. When he entered, Victor Chupin was
sitting, in his shirt-sleeves, at a little table, where, by the light of
a small lamp, and with a zeal that brought a flush to his cheeks, he was