valet, Laurent by name, as cunning a fellow as the Frontin of the old
comedy, waited in the vicinity of the house inhabited by the unknown
for the hour at which letters were distributed. In order to be able to
spy at his ease and hang about the house, he had followed the example
of those police officers who seek a good disguise, and bought up
cast-off clothes of an Auvergnat, the appearance of whom he sought to
imitate. When the postman, who went the round of the Rue Saint Lazare
that morning, passed by, Laurent feigned to be a porter unable to
remember the name of a person to whom he had to deliver a parcel, and
consulted the postman. Deceived at first by appearances, this
personage, so picturesque in the midst of Parisian civilization,
informed him that the house in which the girl with the golden eyes
dwelt belonged to Don Hijos, Marquis de San-Real, grandee of Spain.
Naturally, it was not with the Marquis that the Auvergnat was
concerned.

"My parcel," he said, "is for the marquise."

"She is away," replied the postman. "Her letters are forwarded to
London."

"Then the marquise is not a young girl who . . . ?"

"Ah!" said the postman, interrupting the _valet de chambre_ and
observing him attentively, "you are as much a porter as I'm . . ."

Laurent chinked some pieces of gold before the functionary, who began
to smile.

"Come, here's the name of your quarry," he said, taking from his