of the bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful.
“Does he often go to Auteuil?” added he.
“Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for instance, he is going to spend the day and night there.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“He has invited me to dine there.”
“There’s a life for you,” said Caderousse; “a town house and a country house.”
“That is what it is to be rich.”
“And shall you dine there?”
“Probably.”
“When you dine there, do you sleep there?”
“If I like; I am at home there.”
Caderousse looked at the young man, as if to get at the truth from the