asters were spending the night in play at Madame d'Argeles's
house. So he was able to name the Viscount de Coralth, who dashed up to
the door in a two-horse phaeton, as well as Baron Trigault, who came on
foot, for exercise, puffing and blowing like a seal. The wine-vendor,
moreover, told his customers that Madame d'Argeles never went out before
half-past two or three o'clock, and then always in a carriage--a piece
of information which must have troubled Chupin; for, as soon as the
landlord had left them to serve some other customers, he leant forward
and said to M. Fortunat: "Did you hear that? How is it possible to track
a person who's in a carriage?"

"By following in another vehicle, of course."

"Certainly, m'sieur; that's as clear as daylight. But that isn't the
question. The point is this: How can one watch the face of a person who
turns her back to you? I must see this woman's face to know whom she
looks at, and how."

This objection, grave as it appeared, did not seem to disturb M.
Fortunat. "Don't worry about that, Victor," he replied. "Under such
circumstances, a mother wouldn't try to see her son from a rapidly
moving carriage. She will undoubtedly alight, and contrive some means of
passing and repassing him--of touching him, if possible. Your task will
only consist in following her closely enough to be on the ground as soon
as she is. Confine your efforts to that; and if you fail to-day,
you'll succeed to-morrow or the day after--the essential thing is to be
patient."

He did better than to preach patience--he practised it. The hours wore
away, and yet he did not stir from his post, though nothing could have
been more disagreeable to him than to remain on exhibition, as it were,
at the door of a wine-shop. At last, at a little before three o'clock,
the gates over the way turned upon their hinges, and a dark-blue
victoria, in which a woman was seated, rolled forth into the street.
"Look!" said M. Fortunat, eagerly. "There she is!"

XVIII.

The woman in the carriage was none other than Madame Lia d'Argeles.
She was attired in one of those startling costumes which are the rage
nowadays, and which impart the same bold and brazen appearance to all
who wear them: so much so, that the most experienced observers are
no longer able to distinguish the honest mother of a family from a
notorious character. A Dutchman, named Van Klopen, who was originally a
tailor at Rotterdam, rightfully ascribes the hon