"Ay! you may have seen her deliver a written letter, poor dear, from her mamma, in all probability?"
"No such thing!—from herself."
"Now, how can you possibly know! Did you see her write it? Do you even know her handwriting?"
"I know her signature,—'Claire de Courson;' and you told me your werry self, that the agreement for the lodgings was signed by her mother as 'Emilie de Courson.'"
"But the signature was inside the written letter. How could you see that?"
"No matter; I did see it with my two eyes as plain as I see you."
"And that's plain enough," muttered Guguste, who, having crept back unobserved into the room, was skulking in a corner.
"Why, sure you didn't go to peep?" said the porteress, with a knowing look of inquiry and accusation.
"What a one you are!" cried Madame Alexandre, trying to turn off jocularly her self-betrayal. "But, not to haggle with partic'lars of how the letter came into my hands, into my hands it came; and what should it be, but a private confidential tête-à-tête epistle from the young lady, saying how Monsieur Boncoeur's reputation for benevolence was up in the neighbourhood, and how he seemed inclined to befriend her poor mother, (the apricot marmalade, you know!) and how it would be a great charity (no, not charity,—act of humanity the shabby-genteels calls it,) if he would exert his interest to procure for her mamma a privilege to sell stamps, a bureau de papier timbré; for which, of course, his petitioner was ever bound to pray, and so forth."
"I hope they don't think of setting up anything in the shop or office line in a house like ourn?" cried Madame Grégoire, with dignity. "They'll find theirself plaguily out of their reckoning!—for I must say it, who shouldn't say it, that there isn't a more partic'larer landlord."