It was then ten o'clock in the morning, and I at once decided to go back
to Gisors for breakfast.

As I was walking along I said to myself:

"Gisors, Gisors--why, I know someone there!

"Who is it? Gisors? Let me see, I have a friend in this town." A name
suddenly came to my mind, "Albert Marambot." He was an old school friend
whom I had not seen for at least twelve years, and who was practicing
medicine in Gisors. He had often written, inviting me to come and see
him, and I had always promised to do so, without keeping my word. But at
last I would take advantage of this opportunity.

I asked the first passer-by:

"Do you know where Dr. Marambot lives?"

He replied, without hesitation, and with the drawling accent of the
Normans:

"Rue Dauphine."

I presently saw, on the door of the house he pointed out, a large brass
plate on which was engraved the name of my old chum. I rang the bell, but
the servant, a yellow-haired girl who moved slowly, said with a Stupid
air:

"He isn't here, he isn't here."