"Where is she, then?"
"At her Aunt Lumignon's, Rue du Petit-Muse, Quartier Saint-Antoine."
"Very good! What number, please?"
But the lady had already closed her door in my face. Should I knock again, to find out the number? No; Rue du Petit-Muse was short, I knew, and I could inquire. My conversation with Madame Dumarteau was not long; she had not an amiable look, but I preferred her ill humor to Madame Piquette's coquetries. At all events, I lost no time there.
I started for Rue du Petit-Muse. If I had not known my Paris, Mademoiselle Rosette could have undertaken to instruct me. I told the cabman to stop at the corner of Rue Saint-Antoine, and went into one of the first houses, where I said to the concierge:
"Madame Lumignon?"
"This is the place, monsieur."
Faith! I was in luck. The next step was to inquire which floor; I was afraid that I could guess beforehand: I should surely be directed to the seventh.
"Which floor, concierge?"
"At the rear of the courtyard, to the left, ground floor."