age by reason of amorous campaigns, owned, among other property, a splendid house in the Rue de Richelieu, worth at that time about two hundred and fifty thousand francs.  It was this house that the hairdresser coveted; and on agreement to pay an annuity of thirty thousand francs so long as the bachelor lived, it passed into his hands.  This happened in 1806.  And in this year 1846 the hairdresser is still paying that annuity.  He has retired from business, he is seventy years old; the ci-devant young man is in his dotage; and as he has married his Mme. Evrard, he may last for a long while yet.  As the hairdresser gave the woman thirty thousand francs, his bit of real estate has cost him, first and last, more than a million, and the house at this day is worth eight or nine hundred thousand francs.

Like the hairdresser, Remonencq the Auvergnat had overheard Brunner’s parting remark in the gateway on the day of Cecile’s first interview with that phoenix of eligible men.  Remonencq at once longed to gain a sight of Pons’ museum; and as he lived on good terms with his neighbors the Cibots, it was not very long before the opportunity came one day when the friends were out.  The sight of such treasures dazzled him; he saw a “good haul,” in dealers’ phrase, which being interpreted means a chance to steal a fortune.  He had been meditating this for five or six days.

“I am sho far from joking,” he said, in reply to Mme. Cibot’s remark, “that we will talk the thing over; and if the good shentleman will take an annuity, of fifty thousand francsh, I will shtand a hamper of wine, if—­”

“Fifty thousand francs!” interrupted the doctor; “what are you thinking about?  Why, if the good man is so well off as that, with me in attendance, and Mme. Cibot to nurse him, he may get better—­for liver complaint is a disease that attacks strong constitutions.”

“Fifty, did I shay?  Why, a shentleman here, on your very doorshtep, offered him sheven hundred thoushand francsh, shimply for the pictursh, fouchtra!”

While Remonencq made this announcement, Mme. Cibot was looking at Dr. Poulain.  There was a strange expression in her eyes; the devil might have kindled that sinister glitter in their tawny depths.

“Oh, come! we must not pay any attention to such idle tales,” said the doctor, well pleased, however, to find that his patient could afford to pay for his visits.

“If my dear Mme. Cibot, here, would let me come and bring an ekshpert (shinsh the shentleman upshtairs ish in bed), I will shertainly find the money in a couple of hoursh, even if sheven hundred thousand francsh ish in queshtion—­”

“All right, my friend,” said the doctor.  “Now, Mme. Cibot, be careful never to contradict the invalid.  You must be prepared to be very patient with him, for he will find everything irritating and wearisome, even your services; nothing will please him; you must expect grumbling—­”