sity that was full of interest, and showed, in spite of himself, an
inward satisfaction.

"Well, monsieur, tell me, do you want to buy any of my things?" said the
old woman, seating herself in a cane arm-chair, which appeared to be
her headquarters. In it she kept her handkerchief, snuffbox, knitting,
half-peeled vegetables, spectacles, calendar, a bit of livery gold lace
just begun, a greasy pack of cards, and two volumes of novels, all stuck
into the hollow of the back. This article of furniture, in which the
old creature was floating down the river of life, was not unlike the
encyclopedic bag which a woman carries with her when she travels; in
which may be found a compendium of her household belongings, from the
portrait of her husband to _eau de Melisse_ for faintness, sugarplums
for the children, and English court-plaster in case of cuts.

Jules studied all. He looked attentively at Madame Gruget's yellow
visage, at her gray eyes without either brows or lashes, her toothless
mouth, her wrinkles marked in black, her rusty cap, her still more rusty
ruffles, her cotton petticoat full of holes, her worn-out slippers, her
disabled fire-pot, her table heaped with dishes and silks and work begun
or finished, in wool or cotton, in the midst of which stood a bottle of
wine. Then he said to himself: "This old woman has some passion, some
strong liking or vice; I can make her do my will."

"Madame," he said aloud, with a private sign of intelligence, "I have
come to order some livery trimmings." Then he lowered his voice. "I
know," he continued, "that you have a lodger who has taken the name of
Camuset." The old woman looked at him suddenly, but without any sign of
astonishment. "Now, tell me, can we come to an understanding? This is a
question which means fortune for you."

"Monsieur," she replied, "speak out, and don't be afraid. There's no one
here. But if I had any one above, it would be impossible for him to hear
you."

"Ha! the sly old creature, she answers like a Norman," thought Jules,
"We shall agree. Do not give yourself the trouble to tell falsehoods,
madame," he resumed, "In the first place, let me tell you that I mean no
harm either to you or to your lodger who is suffering from cautery, or
to your daughter Ida, a stay-maker, the friend of Ferragus. You see, I
know all your affairs. Do not be uneasy; I am not a detective policeman,
nor do I desire anything that can hurt your conscience. A young lady
will com