," said Rodolphe, as he walked away.

Returning home, he went to bed at once, and had the most delightful
dreams. He saw himself at balls, theaters, and public promenades with
Mademoiselle Laure on his arm, clad in dresses more magnificent than
those of the girl with the ass's skin of the fairy tale.

The next morning at eleven o'clock, according to habit, Rodolphe got up.
His first thought was for Mademoiselle Laure.

"She is a very well mannered woman," he murmured, "I feel sure that she
was brought up at Saint Denis. I shall at length realize the happiness
of having a mistress who is not pitted with the small-pox. Decidedly I
will make sacrifices for her. I will go and draw my screw at 'The Scarf
of Iris.' I will buy some gloves, and I will take Laure to dinner at a
restaurant where table napkins are in use. My coat is not up to much,"
said he as he dressed himself, "but, bah! black is good wear."

And he went out to go to the office of "The Scarf of Iris."

Crossing the street he came across an omnibus, on the side of which was
pasted a bill, with the words, "Display of Fountains at Versailles,
today, Sunday."

A thunderbolt falling at Rodolphe's feet would not have produced a
deeper impression upon him than the sight of this bill.

"Today, Sunday! I had forgotten it," he exclaimed. "I shall not be able
to get any money. Today, Sunday!!! All the spare coin in Paris is on its
way to Versailles."

However, impelled by one of those fabulous hopes to which a man always
clings, Rodolphe hurried to the office of the paper, reckoning that some
happy chance might have taken the cashier there.

Monsieur Boniface had, indeed, looked in for a moment, but had left at
once.

"For Versailles," said the office messenger to Rodolphe.

"Come," said Rodolphe, "it is all over!... But let me see," he thought,
"my appointment is for this evening. It is noon, so I have five hours to
find five francs in--twenty sous an hour, like the horses in the Bois du
Boulogne. Forward."

As he found himself in a neighborhood where the journalist, whom he
styled the influential critic, resided, Rodolphe thought of having a try
at him.

"I am sure to find him in," said he, as he ascended the stairs, "it is
the day he writes his criticism--there is no fear of his being out. I
will borrow five francs of him."

"Hallo! it's you, is it?" said the journalist, on seeing Rodolphe. "You
come at the right moment. I have a slight service to ask