don't see the brougham anywhere," he said.

"Oh, I see it all right, sir. But it is drawn by a splendid horse!"

"Yours ought to be a better one. I said twenty francs; I'll make it
forty."

The driver whipped up his horse most mercilessly, and growled, "It's no
use, I must catch her. For twenty francs, I would have let her escape;
for I love the girls, and am on their side. But, fancy! Forty francs! I
wonder how such an ugly man can be so jealous."

Old Tabaret tried in every way to occupy his mind with other matters. He
did not wish to reflect before seeing the woman, speaking with her, and
carefully questioning her.

He was sure that by one word she would either condemn or save her lover.

"What! condemn Noel? Ah, well! yes."

The idea that Noel was the assassin harassed and tormented him, and
buzzed in his brain, like the moth which flies again and again against
the window where it sees a light.

As they passed the Chaussee d'Antin, the brougham was scarcely thirty
paces in advance. The cab driver turned, and said: "But the Brougham is
stopping."

"Then stop also. Don't lose sight of it; but be ready to follow it again
as soon as it goes off."

Old Tabaret leaned as far as he could out of the cab.

The young woman alighted, crossed the pavement, and entered a shop where
cashmeres and laces were sold.

"There," thought the old fellow, "is where the thousand franc notes go!
Half a million in four years! What can these creatures do with the money
so lavishly bestowed upon them? Do they eat it? On the altar of what
caprices do they squander these fortunes? They must have the devil's own
potions which they give to drink to the idiots who ruin themselves
for them. They must possess some peculiar art of preparing and spicing
pleasure; since, once they get hold of a man, he sacrifices everything
before forsaking them."

The cab moved on once more, but soon stopped again.

The brougham had made a fresh pause, this time in front of a curiosity
shop.

"The woman wants then to buy out half of Paris!" said old Tabaret to
himself in a passion. "Yes, if Noel committed the crime, it was she
who forced him to it. These are my fifteen thousand francs that she is
frittering away now. How long will they last her? It must have been for
money, then, that Noel murdered Widow Lerouge. If so, he is the lowest,
the most infamous of men! What a monster of dissimulation and hypocrisy!
And to think that he would be my heir, i