go into the shop, and come out again,
without exciting the smallest suspicion if any one should happen to meet
her.

As soon as Crevel had lighted the candles in the sitting-room, the Baron
was surprised at the elegance and refinement it displayed. The perfumer
had given the architect a free hand, and Grindot had done himself
credit by fittings in the Pompadour style, which had in fact cost sixty
thousand francs.

"What I want," said Crevel to Grindot, "is that a duchess, if I brought
one there, should be surprised at it."

He wanted to have a perfect Parisian Eden for his Eve, his "real lady,"
his Valerie, his duchess.

"There are two beds," said Crevel to Hulot, showing him a sofa that
could be made wide enough by pulling out a drawer. "This is one, the
other is in the bedroom. We can both spend the night here."

"Proof!" was all the Baron could say.

Crevel took a flat candlestick and led Hulot into the adjoining room,
where he saw, on a sofa, a superb dressing-gown belonging to Valerie,
which he had seen her wear in the Rue Vanneau, to display it before
wearing it in Crevel's little apartment. The Mayor pressed the spring of
a little writing-table of inlaid work, known as a _bonheur-du-jour_, and
took out of it a letter that he handed to the Baron.

"Read that," said he.

The Councillor read these words written in pencil:

"I have waited in vain, you old wretch! A woman of my quality does
not expect to be kept waiting by a retired perfumer. There was no
dinner ordered--no cigarettes. I will make you pay for this!"

"Well, is that her writing?"

"Good God!" gasped Hulot, sitting down in dismay. "I see all the things
she uses--her caps, her slippers. Why, how long since--?"

Crevel nodded that he understood, and took a packet of bills out of the
little inlaid cabinet.

"You can see, old man. I paid the decorators in December, 1838. In
October, two months before, this charming little place was first used."

Hulot bent his head.

"How the devil do you manage it? I know how she spends every hour of her
day."

"How about her walk in the Tuileries?" said Crevel, rubbing his hands in
triumph.

"What then?" said Hulot, mystified.

"Your lady love comes to the Tuileries, she is supposed to be airing
herself from one till four. But, hop, skip, and jump, and she is here.
You know your Moliere? Well, Baron, there is nothing imaginary in your
title."

Hulot, left without a shred of doubt, sat sunk