"I must have recourse to that idiot again; it's a great pity, because I owe him a thousand crowns already, and I have no prospect of any legacy hereafter with which to pay him; but still, nobody knows, perhaps the public won't treat me as harshly everywhere as it did at Quimper-Corentin; my voice will come back; I'll take to a diet of yolks of eggs—and mulled eggs. Meanwhile, Seringat may as well lend me another thousand crowns. He's rich; if he wasn't, I wouldn't ask him for a sou, especially as he couldn't give it to me. But he told me himself, in the course of conversation, that he had twelve thousand francs a year. The idiot! he could be so happy with that! And to think that he's in hiding, that he's afraid someone will recognize him—and all because his wife—— Upon my word, it's incredible! I am perfectly sure that he hasn't his like in Paris!"
When he arrived at the old house, Dodichet dismissed the cab; he crossed the courtyard, and on the ground floor found the landlady, who was also concierge, and who supplied her guests with food; she filled a number of positions, in order to increase her profits. At that moment she was preparing snails à la provençale: first she took them out of the shell, which she filled with a stuffing strongly seasoned with garlic, then replaced the creature, and let the whole simmer over a slow fire.
"Gad! that smells good!" observed Dodichet; "you're cooking snails, are you, madame?"
"Yes, monsieur; and I venture to flatter myself that they'll be delicious."
"I am not mad over that animal; it seems to me that when he's cooked he becomes exactly like india rubber; but these have a seductive odor."
"They are à la provençale. If monsieur would like a portion, they're only six sous each; that ain't dear."
"Faith! no; and one must come to the upper end of Rue Saint-Jacques to get any sort of a dish all cooked at that price. Put one portion aside for me. I'll eat it when I come down from my friend Miflorès. For I suppose he's in, isn't he? and I'll go up."
The landlady-concierge dropped a snail which she was just preparing, looked at Dodichet with a tragic expression, and exclaimed:
"Stop, monsieur! don't go up! it's no use; you wont find Monsieur Miflorès."
"Has he gone out? Well, then I'll wait for him and eat my snails now; he won't be out long, I fancy?"