make his fortune.  “A registry office!” muttered he scornfully.  “Is he going to propose a berth of a hundred francs a month to me?” He was much agitated at the thoughts of the impending interview, and, before entering the house, gazed upon its exterior with great interest.  The house much resembled its neighbors.  The entrances to the Registry Office and the Servants’ Home were in the courtyard, at the arched entrance to which stood a vendor of roast chestnuts.

“There is no use in remaining here,” said Paul.  Summoning, therefore, all his resolution, he crossed the courtyard, and, ascending a flight of stairs, paused before a door upon which “Office” was written.  “Come in!” responded at once to his knock.  He pushed open the door, and entered a room, which closely resembled all other similar offices.  There were seats all round the room, polished by frequent use.  At the end was a sort of compartment shut in by a green baize curtain, jestingly termed “the Confessional” by the frequenters of the office.  Between the windows was a tin plate, with the words, “All fees to be paid in advance,” in large letters upon it.  In one corner a gentleman was seated at a writing table, who, as he made entries in a ledger, was talking to a woman who stood beside him.

“M.  Mascarin?” asked Paul hesitatingly.

“What do you want with him?” asked the man, without looking up from his work.  “Do you wish to enter your name?  We have now vacancies for three bookkeepers, a cashier, a confidential clerk—­six other good situations.  Can you give good references?”

These words seemed to be uttered by rote.

“I beg your pardon,” returned Paul; “but I should like to see M. Mascarin.  One of his friends sent me here.”

This statement evidently impressed the official, and he replied almost politely, “M.  Mascarin is much occupied at present, sir; but he will soon be disengaged.  Pray be seated.”

Paul sat down on a bench, and examined the man who had just spoken with some curiosity.  M. Mascarin’s partner was a tall and athletic man, evidently enjoying the best of health, and wearing a large moustache elaborately waxed and pointed.  His whole appearance betokened the old soldier.  He had, so he asserted, served in the cavalry, and it was there that he had acquired the soubriquet by which he was known—­Beaumarchef, his original name being David.  He was about forty-five, but was still considered a very good-looking fellow.  The entries that he was making in the ledger did not prevent him from keeping up a conversation with the woman standing by him.  The woman, who seemed to be a cross between a cook and a market-woman, might be described as a thoroughly jovial soul.  She seasoned her conversation with pinches of snuff, and spoke with a strong Alsatian brogue.

“Now, look here,” said Beaumarchef; “do you really mean to say that you want a place?”

“I do that.”