“If you don’t want to go—” began Madame Perrache, always ready to offer her services.
The fishwife hesitated for a moment; then, reflecting that something might be got out of a conversation with the wine-merchant, and sure, moreover, that as long as Toupillier lay on his gold she could safely leave him alone with the portress, she said:—
“Thank you, Madame Perrache, but I’d better make acquaintance with his trades-folk.”
Then, having spied behind the night-table a dirty bottle which might hold about two quarts,—
“Did he say the rue des Canelles?” she inquired of the portress.
“Corner of the rue Guisarde,” replied Madame Perrache. “Monsieur Legrelu, a tall, fine man with big whiskers and no hair.” Then, lowering her voice, she added: “His number-six wine, you know, is Roussillon, and the best, too. However, the wine-merchant knows; it is enough if you tell him you have come from his customer, the pauper of Saint-Sulpice.”
“No need to tell me anything twice,” said the Cardinal, opening the door and making, as they say, a false exit. “Ah ca!” she said, coming back; “what does he burn in his stove, supposing I want to heat some remedy for him?”
“Goodness!” said the portress, “he doesn’t make much provision for winter, and here we are in the middle of summer!”
“And not a saucepan! not a pot, even! Gracious! what a way to live. I’ll have to fetch him some provisions; I hope nobody will see the things I bring back; I’d be ashamed they should—”
“I’ll lend you a hand-bag,” said the portress, always ready and officious.