"No! She is for monsieur," said Suzanne, in a burst of magnanimity.
The proprietress picked up her pen. "Monsieur resides——?"
"No matter. I renounce my claim in favour of mademoiselle."
The proprietress dipped the pen in the inkpot: "Mademoiselle goes to the Maison Séverin, n'est ce pas?"
"What?" cried Pariset. "The Maison Séverin? It is at the Maison Séverin you have taken a flat, mademoiselle? Why, that is my address, too! What storey are you on?"
"The fourth."
"And I! Listen, an idea, a compromise. If you would be so generous, might you not lend her to me now and then?"
"But everything arranges itself," repeated the fat woman, joyously. "Mademoiselle and monsieur can share her to perfection. Marceline, you would render service in two little appartements on the same floor?"
"That is worth more money," said Marceline; and proceeded to estimate the suggestion at a monstrous figure.
However, her views were modified at last. The fat woman made entries in a tattered book. Suzanne heard the gentleman give his name as "monsieur Henri Pariset." Pariset did not hear the lady give her name, because the proprietress, of course, knew it already. Far from suspecting each other's identity, the Challenger and the Challenged exchanged cheerful smiles. Then Marceline was prevailed upon to fetch her box forthwith, and the elated journalist and the charming girl who thirsted for his blood bore their domestic gaily to the rue Baba together.