"'Tis my true and honest belief," interrupted the lady in the silk-cloak, "that the girl is gone to the Mont de Piété! I said to Robert, our footman, when he was taking up master's apricot marmalade, that 'twould be a deal more to the purpose if he took up a good dish of cutlets, or a fricandeau; for, as you and I was agreeing t'other day, my dear Ma'me Grégoire, not an ounce of anything eatable beyond daily bread ever goes up these blessed stairs to the third-floor. And, what's more, I've noticed strange changes in Miss and Madam since they took up in the house; I don't mean in point of growing thin and meagre, 'cause care alone, without starving, will bring the poor body of a poor soul down to nothing. But, the day as their goods came in, Ma'mselle Courson had as good a cloak over her shoulders as the one on mine (which cost me a good hundred and thirty livres in the Passage de l'Orme,) and Ma'mselle Claire's having a velvet collar doubtless might be counted at twenty more. What's become of it, I should like to know?"
"Ay, what's become of it, eh?" added the porteress, tapping her box.
"Certes! people that has a comfortable cloak is apt to put it on such nights as this!" rejoined the housekeeper; "but I say nothing."
"The young lady may have lent it to her mamma, who is indisposed," pleaded Guguste. "Fuel is ris' within the week. I don't suppose they've too much fire."
"Lent it to her mamma, indeed!" cried Madame Alexandre. "Why, Madame Courson has as handsome a Thibet shawl as ever came out of Ternaux's factory."
"Had," emended the porteress. "I haven't seen the red shawl on her shoulders these three weeks. On that point I has my suspicions."
A single rap, Parisian-wise, at the porte cochère, produced the usual professional tug at the cordon. The gate flew open; and, peeping in at the window-pane, was seen the rubicund face of Monsieur Paul Emile Pruin, the grocer, come in search of his loitering guest.
"So, so, so!" cried he, on detecting her in the thick of gossip with the grandmamma of Dodore. "This is the way you keep your appointments, ma belle voisine? Haven't we had the hearth made up these three quarters of an hour, candles snuffed, (bougies de l'étoile, always a-snuffing!) a fresh bottle of groseille frambroisée ready to be uncorked, and a batch of biscuits de Rheims ready to be opened?—Saw Monsieur le Député's carriage bowl out, and been hoping ever since to see you bowl in. Poor Madame Paul in the fidgets, as if she'd swallowed a flight of swallows,—up and down,—in and out. Sent me over with the umbrella to look after you."
"Thank you,—thank you!" cried Madame Alexandre. "'Tis the first of the month, you see," she continued, winking at the blind old porteress (to whom a nod and wink were much alike) to back her apologies. "I'd my little postage account to settle with my good friend here. But now I'm at your service. Allons!"
"Guguste, my dear, show the lantern to Madame Alexandre over the ruisseau," said the porteress, turning round to look for her boarder. But Guguste had disappeared. He had perhaps sneaked away to track the mysterious footsteps of Mademoiselle de Courson.