“See which numbers remain, and you will know the one you want.”
“Precisely so. Thank you.”
The merchant closed his store, and, taking the arm of the young provincial, conducted him towards the residence of Madame Morin.
“Madame Morin,” said Lansade, on the way, “is an excellent woman. She has been frivolous and fond of pleasure in her time, but I do not attach any importance to that. I am a Voltairian, like your father. I am a philosopher, also, in my way. Between you and me, I may add that there are few now-a-days of my worth: besides, I have amassed a nice little fortune.”
They reached the house. Lansade presented Eusebe, who was cordially welcomed by Madame Morin, and then the merchant retired.
“Before you retire to rest,” said the landlady to Eusebe, “give me your papers, so that I may give you a proper description on my book.”
“What papers?” asked the young man, astonished.
“Not for my own satisfaction,—because it is sufficient for me to know that M. Lansade brought you here,—but for the police.”
At the word “police,” Eusebe recalled the scene at the office of the commissary, and hastened to give to Madame Morin his port d’armes. She then wrote in her book,—