d he, entering the figures as he went on, "there will be four
hundred francs spent in five months. For your living, say thirty francs
per week, which makes six hundred. For your clothing, seventy-five per
month, which makes three hundred and seventy-five, and ought to be quite
enough for a young man of moderate tastes. For your washing and
firewood, perhaps forty per month, which makes two hundred--and for your
incidental expenses, say fifteen per week, which makes three hundred. We
thus arrive at a total of one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five
francs, which, reduced to English money at the average standard of
twenty-five francs to the sovereign, represents the exact sum of
seventy-five pounds. Do I make myself understood?"

I bowed for the third time.

"Of the original one hundred and five pounds, we now have thirty not
accounted for. May I ask how much of that surplus you have left?"

"About--not more than--than a hundred and twenty francs," I replied,
stripping the feathers off all the pens in succession, without
knowing it.

"Have you any debts?"

"A--a few."

"Tailors' bills?"

"Yes, sir."

"What others?"

"A--a couple of months' rent, I believe, sir."

"Is that all?"

"N--not quite."

Dr. Cheron frowned, and looked again at his watch.

"Be good enough, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, "to spare me this amount of
useless interrogation by at once stating the nature and amount of
the rest."

"I--I cannot positively state the amount, sir," I said, absurdly trying
to get the paper-weight into my waistcoat pocket, and then putting it
down in great confusion. "I--I have an account at Monceau's in the Rue
Duphot, and..."

"I beg your pardon," interrupted Dr. Cheron: "but who is Monceau?"

"Monceau's--Monceau's livery-stables, sir."

Dr. Cheron slightly raised his eye-brows, and entered the name.

"And at Lavoisier's, on the Boulevard Poissonniere--"

"What is sold, pray, at Lavoisier's?"

"Gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made linen..."

"Enough--you can proceed."

"I have also a bill at--at Barbet's, in the Passage de l'Opera."

"And Barbet is--?"

"A--a florist!" I replied, very reluctantly.

"Humph!--a florist!" observed Dr. Cheron, again transfixing me with the
cold, blue eye. "To what amount do you suppose you are indebted to
Monsieur Barbet?"

I looked down, and became utterly unintelligible.

"Fifty francs?"

"I--I fear, more than--than--"

"A hundred? A hundred and fifty? Tw