"Oh, no. The truth is, M. de Beauchamp thought he saw—in fact, M. de Beauchamp did see visions. In one of these he was foretold of a possible difference of opinion between himself and the government; about something that was to have happened yesterday and didn't happen——"
"Did not happen. Go on."
"There, Monsieur Jean," she concluded, "that is all. Only, you see, M. de Beauchamp's arrangements having been made, he probably thought he might as well disappear——"
"And his studio with him."
"Precisely. Look what a nice big closet in the wall!"
"Yes,—funny. But, I say, mon enfant, was this handsome M. de Beauchamp really an artist?"
"Bah! how do I know? He made pictures. Certainly, he made pictures."
Jean Marot laughed so heartily at this subtle distinction that he lost the mental note of her disinclination to gossip about her late neighbor,—a reluctance that is decidedly foreign to the French female character.
"Now, Monsieur Jean,"—when he had made up his mind,—"if you will let me manage the concierge," she went on, "it may save you fifty francs, don't you know? Very likely the term has been paid,—he will make you pay it again. I know Monsieur Benoit,—he'd rob you like saying a prayer."
"It is a novelty to be looked after by a female agent, anyhow," mused the young man, when she had disappeared on this mission. "If she picks up the fifty francs instead of that surly rascal Benoit I'm satisfied. It is a quiet place, sure, and dog cheap. Now, I wonder what her game is, for women don't do all of these things for nothing."