"Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can assure you that he'll never come back."
"What do you say? he'll never come back? Has he moved again, then? What does this mean?"
"Why, don't you know what has happened, monsieur?"
"Parbleu! madame, if I did know, I wouldn't ask you."
"Well, then, monsieur, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened. But first let me pick up this snail which slipped out of my hand."
"To be sure; shall you cook it with the others?"
"Fire purifies everything, monsieur.—It was like this: just a fortnight ago, a middle-aged man, very well dressed and with a very jovial air, came into my house, followed by a porter with his luggage. He asked me for a good room, and said he expected to spend ten or twelve days in Paris; that he had come here to enjoy himself; and he told me his name, Jacques Ronflard. Very good; I put him in a room on the first floor, looking on this courtyard; he went out soon, and didn't come in till very late. The next morning, monsieur, your friend Miflorès went out as usual to take a short walk before breakfast. He'd no sooner gone than my new tenant, Monsieur Ronflard, comes downstairs and says:
"'Pardieu! you've got an acquaintance of mine here; I just saw him through the window, and I recognized him right off. I'm very glad to find him in the same hotel; he's a good friend of mine, is Seringat, and he comes from Pontoise.'
"I looks at him, and I says:
"'But you're mistaken, monsieur; I haven't got any Seringat in my house.'