“I am not married,” said the merchant, “and, therefore, have no son. If I had one, I would not let him travel. For myself, I will never go farther than Versailles, where I am going to retire. I shall be sure to find a hospitable tent there, for I have an income of ten thousand francs. Finally, I am not a generous man: I am a dealer in porcelain.”

“It is not a dull trade,” observed Eusebe, sententiously.

“I invited you to come in,” continued the merchant, “because I knew by your accent that you were a compatriot. I am from Rochechouart. My name is Lansade.”

Eusebe thereupon gave an account of his journey, and detailed the motives for the undertaking,—which, however, the merchant did not comprehend.

“What I can see clearly in all this is, that M. Martin, your father,—I know him well,—wishes you to see the world. It is quite natural. A young man ought to know something of life.”

“Such is, indeed, his wish.”

“But,” continued Lansade, “he should have given you letters of introduction to some friends, who would take pleasure in piloting you through Paris.”

“My father has no friends.”

“As times go, that is perhaps as well. But one must have acquaintances: one cannot live like a bear.”

“My father lives like a philosopher.”

“It is the same thing,” said Lansade. “Now, since your good star has conducted you to my door, I wish to be useful to you. First, take these cards, which have my address. Do not lose them. I will close my store, and then conduct you to Madame Morin, a lady who rents chambers. She is a fine woman, who will take care of you. I am not sorry to take her a tenant. I shall thereby render service to two persons.”

“You are very good, monsieur,” said Eusebe: “I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you.”

“It is not worth mentioning. As soon as I have closed my store, we will set out.”

“Shall I assist you?” inquired Eusebe.

“I have only three shutters to put up. For twenty-five years I have put them up at night and taken them down in the morning. You may presume that I have learned my task.”

So saying, the merchant set about closing his shop. Eusebe was quite another man: his anxiety had vanished. After waiting a few moments, he went to the door. Lansade had made no progress. He stood looking at the shutters, and seemed puzzled.

“Well, this is a nice piece of business!” exclaimed the merchant. “Ah, Pierichou, to-morrow you shall hear from me.”

“What is the matter?” asked Eusebe.

“My porter is a lazy rascal whom I rescued from misery. Two weeks ago, I decided to have the front of my store painted. The painter forgot to number the shutters. Then I told Pierichou to number them with ink. The scamp has numbered them with Spanish white; and now one of the figures is effaced.”

“Well, what is the consequence?”

“The consequence is, that I don’t know how to put them up. If I put the first in the second place, they cannot be fastened.”

“Excuse me, monsieur, but will you permit me to suggest——”

“What?”

“There is but one number effaced.”

“That is quite enough.”

“See which numbers remain, and you will know the one you want.”

“Precisely so. Thank you.”

The merchant closed his store, and, taking the arm of the young provincial, conducted him towards the residence of Madame Morin.

“Madame Morin,” said Lansade, on the way, “is an excellent woman. She has been frivolous and fond of pleasure in her time, but I do not attach any importance to that. I am a Voltairian, like your father. I am a philosopher, also, in my way. Between you and me, I may add that there are few now-a-days of my worth: besides, I have amassed a nice little fortune.”

They reached the house. Lansade presented Eusebe, who was cordially welcomed by Madame Morin, and then the merchant retired.

“Before you retire to rest,” said the landlady to Eusebe, “give me your papers, so that I may give you a proper description on my book.”

“What papers?” asked the young man, astonished.

“Not for my own satisfaction,—because it is sufficient for me to know that M. Lansade brought you here,—but for the police.”

At the word “police,” Eusebe recalled the scene at the office of the commissary, and hastened to give to Madame Morin his port d’armes. She then wrote in her book,—

“Chamber No. 17.—M. Eusebe Martin, born at the Capelette, department of the Upper Vienne, aged twenty-one years, by profession a hunter.”