“Here den, mensieur,” said the Baron, taking out five thousand-franc notes and handing them to Corentin.

“The waiting-maid is great friends with a tall chasseur named Paccard, living in the Rue de Provence, over a carriage-builder’s; he goes out as heyduque to persons who give themselves princely airs.  You can get at Madame van Bogseck’s woman through Paccard, a brawny Piemontese, who has a liking for vermouth.”

This information, gracefully thrown in as a postscript, was evidently the return for the five thousand francs.  The Baron was trying to guess Corentin’s place in life, for he quite understood that the man was rather a master of spies than a spy himself; but Corentin remained to him as mysterious as an inscription is to an archaeologist when three-quarters of the letters are missing.

“Vat is dat maid called?” he asked.

“Eugenie,” replied Corentin, who bowed and withdrew.

The Baron, in a transport of joy, left his business for the day, shut up his office, and went up to his rooms in the happy frame of mind of a young man of twenty looking forward to his first meeting with his first mistress.

The Baron took all the thousand-franc notes out of his private cash-box—­a sum sufficient to make the whole village happy, fifty-five thousand francs—­and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat.  But a millionaire’s lavishness can only be compared with his eagerness for gain.  As soon as a whim or a passion is to be gratified, money is dross to a Croesus; in fact, he finds it harder to have whims than gold.  A keen pleasure is the rarest thing in these satiated lives, full of the excitement that comes of great strokes of speculation, in which these dried-up hearts have burned themselves out.

For instance, one of the richest capitalists in Paris one day met an extremely pretty little working-girl.  Her mother was with her, but the girl had taken the arm of a young fellow in very doubtful finery, with a very smart swagger.  The millionaire fell in love with the girl at first sight; he followed her home, he went in; he heard all her story, a record of alternations of dancing at Mabille and days of starvation, of play-going and hard work; he took an interest in it, and left five thousand-franc notes under a five-franc piece—­an act of generosity abused.  Next day a famous upholsterer, Braschon, came to take the damsel’s orders, furnished rooms that she had chosen, and laid out twenty thousand francs.  She gave herself up to the wildest hopes, dressed her mother to match, and flattered herself she would find a place for her ex-lover in an insurance office.  She waited—­a day, two days—­then a week, two weeks.  She thought herself bound to be faithful; she got into debt.  The capitalist, called away to Holland, had forgotten the girl; he never went once to the Paradise where he had placed her, and from which she fell as low as it is possible to fall even in Paris.