La Normande to
get his address."

"Then all is right," said the presidente.

"Have the kindness to send for him."

"Oh! he would not come down for the regent himself. If you want to see
him you must go up."

"Where?"

"At No. 2, where you supped the other evening with the Baron de Valef.
Oh! when he has money, nothing is too good for him. Although he is but a
captain, he has the heart of a king."

"Better and better," said D'Harmental, mounting the staircase, without
being deterred by the recollection of the misadventure which had
happened to him in that room; "that is exactly what I want."

If D'Harmental had not known the room in question, the voice of the
captain would soon have served him for a guide.

"Now, my little loves," said he, "the third and last verse, and together
in the chorus." Then he began singing in a magnificent bass voice, and
four or five female voices took up the chorus.

"That is better," said the captain; "now let us have the 'Battle of
Malplaquet."

"No, no," said a voice; "I have had enough of your battle."

"What! enough of it--a battle I was at myself?"

"That is nothing to me. I like a romance better than all your wicked
battle-songs, full of oaths." And she began to sing "Linval loved
Arsene--"

"Silence!" said the captain. "Am I not master here? As long as I have
any money I will be served as I like. When I have no more, that will be
another thing; then you may sing what you like; I shall have nothing to
say to it."

It appeared that the servants of the cabaret thought it beneath the
dignity of their sex to subscribe to such a pretension, for there was
such a noise that D'Harmental thought it best to announce himself.

"Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up," said the captain.

D'Harmental followed the instruction which was given him in the words of
Little Red Riding-hood; and, having entered, saw the captain lying on a
couch before the remains of an ample dinner, leaning on a cushion, a
woman's shawl over his shoulders, a great pipe in his mouth, and a cloth
rolled round his head like a turban. Three or four servants were
standing round him with napkins in their hands. On a chair near him was
placed his coat, on which was to be seen a new shoulder-knot, his hat
with a new lace, and the famous sword which had furnished Ravanne with
the facetious comparison to his mother's spit.

"What! is it you?" cried the captain. "You find me like Monsieur de
Bonneval--in my