“I pity you if you are going to the marchioness’s house to collect a bill,” he remarked to Lecoq. “You will have plenty of time to learn the way here before you see your money. You will only be another of the many creditors who never let her bell alone.”
“The deuce! Is she as poor as that?”
“Poor! Why, every one knows that she has a comfortable income, without counting this house. But when one spends double one’s income every year, you know—”
The landlord stopped short, to call Lecoq’s attention to two ladies who were passing along the street, one of them, a woman of forty, dressed in black; the other, a girl half-way through her teens. “There,” quoth the wine-seller, “goes the marchioness’s granddaughter, Mademoiselle Claire, with her governess, Mademoiselle Smith.”
Lecoq’s head whirled. “Her granddaughter!” he stammered.
“Yes—the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it.”
“How old is the marchioness, then?”
“At least sixty: but one would never suspect it. She is one of those persons who live a hundred years. And what an old wretch she is too. She would think no more of knocking me over the head than I would of emptying this glass of wine—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Lecoq, “but does she live alone in that great house?”
“Yes—that is—with her granddaughter, the governess, and two servants. But what is the matter with you?”