"I beg your pardon," interrupted Dr. Chéron: "but who is Monceau?"

"Monceau's--Monceau's livery-stables, sir."

Dr. Chéron slightly raised his eye-brows, and entered the name.

"And at Lavoisier's, on the Boulevard Poissonnière--"

"What is sold, pray, at Lavoisier's?"

"Gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made linen..."

"Enough--you can proceed."

"I have also a bill at--at Barbet's, in the Passage de l'Opéra."

"And Barbet is--?"

"A--a florist!" I replied, very reluctantly.

"Humph!--a florist!" observed Dr. Chéron, again transfixing me with the
cold, blue eye. "To what amount do you suppose you are indebted to
Monsieur Barbet?"

I looked down, and became utterly unintelligible.

"Fifty francs?"

"I--I fear, more than--than--"