"Dear me! Two letters! Pray excuse me, monsieur. I suppose you paid for them?"
"I did."
"You are very good. I tell you what, then, we will settle that out of the first money you have to pay me; how much was it?"
"Three sous," answered Rodolph, much amused at the ingenious method of reimbursement employed by Madame Pipelet. "But may I, without offence, observe that one of the letters is addressed to you, and that you possess in the writer a correspondent whose billets-doux are marvellously well perfumed?"
"Let us see what it is about," said the porteress, taking the epistle in the scented envelope. "Yes, upon my word, it is scented up like a real billet-doux! Now, I should very much like to know who would dare write me a love-letter! He must be a villain!"
"And suppose it had fallen into your husband's hands, Madame Pipelet?"
"Oh, for goodness' sake don't mention that, or I shall faint away in your arms! But how stupid I am! Now I know all about it," replied the fat porteress, shrugging her shoulders. "To be sure! to be sure! it comes from the Commandant! Lord bless me, what a fright I have had! for Alfred is as jealous as a Turk."
"Here is another letter addressed to M. César Bradamanti."
"Ah! to be sure, the dentist on the third floor. I will put it in the letter-boot."
Rodolph fancied he had not caught the right words, but, to his astonishment, he saw Madame Pipelet gravely throw the letter alluded to into an old top-boot hanging up against the wall. He looked at her with surprise.