The Mayor pressed the spring
of a little writing-table of inlaid work, known as a
_bonheur-du-jour_, and took out of it a letter that he handed to the
Baron.
"Read that," said he.
The Councillor read these words written in pencil:
"I have waited in vain, you old wretch! A woman of my quality does
not expect to be kept waiting by a retired perfumer. There was no
dinner ordered--no cigarettes. I will make you pay for this!"
"Well, is that her writing?"
"Good God!" gasped Hulot, sitting down in dismay. "I see all the
things she uses--her caps, her slippers. Why, how long since--?"
Crevel nodded that he understood, and took a packet of bills out of
the little inlaid cabinet.
"You can see, old man. I paid the decorators in December, 1838. In
October, two months before, this charming little place was first
used."
Hulot bent his head.
"How the devil do you manage it? I know how she spends every hour of
her day."
"How about her walk in the Tuileries?" said Crevel, rubbing his hands
in triumph.
"What then?" said Hulot, mystified.
"Your lady love comes to the Tuileries, she is supposed to be airing
herself from one till four. But, hop, skip, and jump, and she is here.
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