"Well?"
"It is settled."
"Really? Will she come?"
"Certainly."
The man in the cloak, who was no other than Fernando de Velletri, let some gold pieces slip into Robeckal's hand.
"If everything goes all right, you will get five hundred francs more," he cried.
"It is as good as if I had the money already in my pocket. Besides, the racket is rather cheap, for the little one is a picture."
"So much the better," laughed the Italian.
While the worthy pair were discussing their plans, Louison went as usual to the boulevards and sang her pretty songs.
In the Golden Calf, Monsieur Aube's restaurant, things were very lively. The guests fairly swarmed in. The landlord ran busily to and fro, now in the kitchen turning over the roast, then again giving orders to the waiters, pulling a tablecloth here, uncorking a bottle there, and then again greeting new guests. On days like this the place was too narrow, and it always made Aube angry that he could not use the first story. The house belonged to an old man, who had until recently lived on the first floor, but since then new tenants had moved in, who were a thorn in the saloon-keeper's side. He had tried his best to get rid of them, advanced the rent, implored, chicaned, but all in vain. They stayed.