"But I had already eaten my watch, as the French say: it had been a week at the Mont de Piété.
"'Your coat then,' says my counsellor, with good-mannered unconcern.
"'And go in my shirt-sleeves?' for I had placed my trunk and its contents in the charge of my landlord, as security for the payment of my board and room-rent.
"'In that case, I don't see what you will do, unless you take my original advice, and dodge the fellow.'
"I left my fair-weather acquaintance in disgust, and went off, literally staggering under the load, the ever-increasing load, the Pelion upon Ossa, of francs, francs, francs,—despair, despair, despair.
"'Eh bien?' says the driver, interrogatively, as I went out to him.
"'Pas de chance!' And I ordered him to drive back to the Cité Odiot.
"'Bien!' says he, polite as ever, cheery as ever; and away we went again, back across the Seine, up the Champs Élysées, into the Rue de l'Oratoire, to the Cité,—my stomach faint, my head aching, my thoughts whirling, and the carriage wheels rattling, clattering, chattering all the way, 'Two francs an hour and drink-money! Two francs an hour and drink-money!'
"Once more I tried my luck at number five, and was filled with exasperation and dismay to find that my friend had been home, and gone off again in great haste, with a portmanteau in his hand.
"Where had he gone? Nobody knew; but he had given his key to the house-servant, saying he would be absent several days.