"It is useless for you to knock," said a neighbor to him, "the house is empty and is for sale. You must inquire at the agent's, Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles."
"And the barber?"
"The barber has left it, I tell you, there's nobody there."
"And Marguerite?"
"She died a week ago."
"Marguerite is dead—is it possible?"
"Why, what is there so extraordinary in that? The poor woman wasn't young."
"Where can I find M. Touquet now?"
"I can't give you any information. That man was a bear, and he spoke to nobody."
Urbain departed, discouraged at this new event. He grieved for the good Marguerite, who had been the witness of his love and his happiness. He had no idea of any way in which he could obtain information as to Blanche's fate. He went to the Porte Montmartre and waited for three hours, in the hope that he who had given him an appointment would come there; but he waited in vain, and then turned despairingly towards his lodging. The good-natured girl, to whom he made his lament, tried to console him by saying,—